


spin me round, set me down

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Comfort/Angst, Friendship, M/M, Oblivious Grantaire, Original Character(s), Tattoo Apprentice Feuilly, Tattoo Apprentice Grantaire, Tattoo Artist Fantine, in the sense that he's oblivious to what he's doing with Alex, though you never actually get to see her in action which is a shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:44:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ve come at an excellent time, R,” Henri said suddenly, hooded eyes fixing on Grantaire. “King’s cup is only ever good with a decent number of people.”</p><p>“Do you know how to play?” Alex asked him earnestly, and Grantaire laughed, pushing down the urge to stare, because it was so bizarre to hear gentle words from someone who looked so much like Enjolras. </p><p>“Can fish swim?”</p><p> </p><p>Or: Grantaire finds an Enjolras lookalike and doesn't realise until they're already in a relationship that he's been subconsciously using Alex as a substitute for the person he really wants. Cue massive guilt, recovery with the help of his friends as Enjolras pines slightly off-stage, and eventual happy ending!</p>
            </blockquote>





	spin me round, set me down

**Author's Note:**

> So this started when the internet in my building cut out and my brain gifted me with a super intense dream of Grantaire finding an Enjolras-lookalike in a park while drunk, and intensified thanks to Louis Garrel's stellar performance in this really lovely film you should all watch called Les Chansons d'Amour. There are scenes where he gets it on with this fabulously cute blonde boy, and things just spiralled from there tbh.
> 
> The title comes from these lyrics - 'how my days they spin me round/and how today it sets me down' - from [And Then You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xxHFokrqEF0) by Greg Laswell, which is a gorgeous song you should definitely listen to because it's very Grantairey.
> 
> ENJOY!

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” Grantaire laughed, tipping his flask back and taking another burning swallow. “Getting to know new people?” 

“Don’t go far then,” Courfeyrac grinned, punching his shoulder gently. 

“Don’t go far off,” Jehan cried, turning around and putting a hand on his heart. “Not even for a day, because…because…” 

“I don’t know how to say it,” Grantaire picked it up. “A day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.” He got to his feet unsteadily and stretched, screwing his eyes shut against the sun. Coming to this public picnic had just been an excuse to drink in the middle of the day, really, but there were lots of people here and the sun was warm – he wanted to wander. 

“Don’t leave me, even for an hour!” Jehan wailed dramatically, falling sideways onto the grass and stretching an arm up to the sky. “Because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home…” 

Grantaire laughed and waved as he walked away, grabbing a bottle of beer out of the crate Bahorel had brought along. The others were all spread out across various blankets, sunbathing and relaxing, sunglasses protecting them from the harsh light, and Grantaire snorted at the sight of Bossuet and Musichetta coaxing Joly out of his clothes, countering his protests with sun cream and prepared counter-arguments about the likelihood of contracting skin cancer from sunburn. 

He had a bottle opener on his keys, and he cracked the beer open and slipped the cap into his pocket as he meandered between blankets and towels. It was like the beach, really. Barely room to breathe, and the amount of lily-white skin being exposed to the sun for the first time in what had to be months guaranteed sunburn for the vast majority. 

Grantaire had allowed Cosette to smear sun cream on his face, but he wasn’t concerned about his arms. He never burned anywhere but his nose and ears, if he caught the sun at all – he tanned, usually. The sun in Paris wasn’t normally strong enough to garner such a strong reaction from his skin anyway. 

Enjolras would have to be greased like a pig to protect against the light today. Though actually, now Grantaire thought of it, his face at least had a tendency to tinge gold instead of pink. It had last year, anyway. 

“Grand capital R!” 

Grantaire looked round, frowning, and smiled when he saw a guy he knew waving at him. “Jules,” he said, making his way around a gang of young girls stretched out on towels, their parents gathered around a disposable barbeque nearby. “Should’ve known you’d be here.” 

“Why’s that?” Jules grinned. He was shirtless, swimming trunks rolled up as high as they would go and feet bare. Grantaire gave him a pointed look and laughed. 

“Where better to work on your tan?” 

Jules snickered. “You’ve rumbled me. Here, have you met the guys?” 

Grantaire looked at the three other boys – also shirtless – lounging around him and shook his head. “Not that I remember. But I make a point of forgetting as much as possible, so we might have met.” Three were dark-haired, but one was dishwater blonde, like Enjolras, and when he smiled Grantaire almost raised his eyebrows because the similarities didn’t end there. This boy was of similar build as well, though he was more relaxed than Grantaire had ever seen Enjolras. 

“We’d remember, I think,” he said, and even his voice was akin to Enjolras’ timbre. Grantaire almost wanted to take a photo – the others would certainly appreciate evidence of an Enjolras doppelganger. 

Grantaire shrugged and smiled, flopping down on the grass next to them. “Introductions then. Jules, how rude of you – you’re a dreadful host.” 

“I never claimed to host this picnic!” Jules protested, but laughed and waved to each boy in turn. “Thierry, Henri, and Alex. This is Grantaire, otherwise known as R.” 

“Oh!” One of them – Thierry – leaned forward with a friendly grin. “You’re the one who downed ten shots in twenty seconds?” 

Grantaire drew himself up tall and nodded proudly. “And made it home in one piece, I’ll add.” 

“Well-fucking-done.” Henri offered his glass of wine, and Grantaire clinked his bottle against it cheerfully. “Even I’ll admit that’s impressive.” 

“Someone call the reporters,” the blonde said dryly. Alex, Grantaire remembered, barely able to look away. “Quick, the papers, the news anchors! _Henri_ has been impressed. I declare it a miracle.” 

Henri snorted and shoved him. Alex laughed and fell sideways, close to Grantaire. “You’ve come at an excellent time, R,” Henri said suddenly, hooded eyes fixing on Grantaire. “King’s cup is only ever good with a decent number of people. Four is merely a gathering – five is a company, and a company is required for an interesting game.” 

“Do you know how to play?” Alex asked him earnestly, and Grantaire laughed, pushing down the urge to stare, because it was so bizarre to hear gentle words from someone who looked so much like Enjolras. 

“Can fish swim?” 

“Excellent!” Henri sat up properly and produced a deck of cards and a pint glass. “And you were good enough to bring your own drink.” 

“And if I run out?” Grantaire asked, smirking. 

“You can have a glass of ours,” Alex assured him, and Grantaire blinked at him before nodding. 

“Thank you. See, Jules?” he looked away, trying to act normal. “ _Some_ people have manners.” 

“Oh, shut up, R,” Jules grumbled, sitting up. “Come on, Henri, deal them out.” 

Grantaire played, and lost the final card. The others cheered when he turned it over and groaned, sighing at the dirty pint balanced precariously on the grass. It held a mixture of red and white wine, and his beer. “Never let it be said I shirked my duty or acted as a sore loser,” he sighed, lifting the glass, pinching his nose, and downing the lot in several unpleasant gulps while the others laughed and encouraged him, applauding when he was done. 

“Fucking champion!” Thierry giggled, and Jules snorted. 

“I swear, you have an iron liver.” 

“My liver and I enjoy a comfortable relationship in which I keep it quiet and content with the liberal application of spirits,” Grantaire said loftily. Alex laughed, waving a hand in the air. 

“There’s a quote! There’s a quote – help me out, Henri – something about sorrows learning to swim?” 

“I tried to drown my sorrows,” Henri nodded, “but the bastards learned to swim. Frida Kahlo.” 

“Well said,” Grantaire laughed, taking his flask from his pocket and unscrewing the top. “I’ll drink to that, somewhat ironically.” He did so, and Jules gasped in mock outrage. 

“You’ve been holding out on us, R! Share the wealth!” 

“With pleasure, good sir,” Grantaire bowed his head and handed the flask to Jules, who took a gulp and passed it to Thierry with a gasp. 

“Fuck, what is that? Paint stripper?” 

“Your privileged tastes are showing, Jules,” Alex smirked, leaning back on one hand. Grantaire ached for a paper and pen-pencil-paintbrush to capture the lines of his body, so much like Enjolras’. His head spun pleasantly, the world tilting around him, and he lay back on the grass with a pleased hum. “You alright?” 

Grantaire opened his eyes a crack to see Alex leaning over him, an amused smile curving his lips up. Grantaire’s own mouth stretched in imitation. “I am excellent. I might go so far as to say I am correct in all matters. Am I alright? I am indeed – I am all rights, and not a single wrong.” 

They all laughed, and Grantaire closed his eyes, fanning his fingers through the grass as if it were hair. “I wonder how you attained this state of grace?” Henri asked sardonically. “Could it possibly be the contents of this flask? Here, try some, Alex.” 

“Thanks. Cheers, grand R.” 

“To life, to life, l’chaim,” Grantaire sang, pushing himself upright again. “Keep the flask, I’ll be back in a moment.” 

“Does nature call?” Jules teased. 

“Nature, thy name is piss,” Grantaire swayed only a little as he got to his feet, but he had to stand for a moment to let the world settle around him. “Nature is nothing but bodily functions and unpleasant aromas disguised by nymphs and satyrs to fool the poets. And the poets fool the people, who in turn are utterly hypnotised by the illusion presented to them. So enraptured are they that the lie can be packaged and sold by the cunning, and the innocent Parisian tricked into attending a public picnic in the world-famous Luxembourg Gardens for the mere pittance of five euros per head, with concessions for children and the elderly. Nature, according to the poets and to divine law, is supposed to be free for consumption by all, and nature in its truest form is free for the time being – it costs nothing to touch the leaves and trunks of the trees lining the public streets. You need not pay a fine if you are caught sniffing a flower in the supermarket. But now fences are erected around the trees and security hustles you out of the building if you refuse to pay for the privilege of a flower’s perfume. How long before I am charged for my body’s natural processes?” 

“You can be,” Henri said lazily. “Some places – train stations in London, for instance, charge you thirty pence to use their toilets.” 

“Ah, the price of humanity,” Grantaire sighed, experimentally placing one foot in front of the other and mentally applauding himself when he managed to adjust his balance correctly and not fall over. “I only hope they do not charge here – I don’t have any change.” 

“If they do, exercise your divine right to piss in a bush,” Alex laughed. “We’ll look after your flask.” 

Portaloos had been brought in for the event, and luckily they were free to use. Grantaire had to lean against the inside of his to stay upright as he relieved himself, and almost drifted off to sleep before he remembered that there were people waiting in the queue. 

He managed to find them again and successfully avoided treading on anyone or tripping over anything on the way over. Jules held up his flask and shouted apologetically. “We may have finished it off.” 

Grantaire waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. After all, it was only paint stripper.” They laughed, and he staggered over to where Alex was sitting, one arm resting on his raised knee, dangling out into the air like an invitation. Partly accidentally, partly on purpose, Grantaire sat down unsteadily, swaying sideways as he descended and brushing the side of his face against Alex’s extended hand. He mumbled an apology and made to draw away, but Alex’s hand followed him to keep the contact, and after a second Grantaire let him, settling into place and pulling his own knees up, resting his forehead on them and wrapping his arms around his legs. 

It was nice. Wonderful, even. Grantaire couldn’t suppress a pleased sigh, and Alex laughed softly, smoothing his hand through Grantaire’s hair, down his neck, and across his shoulders. One of the other boys laughed too, and Henri snorted, “Looks like you’ve found a new pet.” 

If he’d been more sober, Grantaire might have been embarrassed enough to move away, but in this state he couldn’t bring himself to place dignity over pleasure, so he kept his head down and said nothing, closing his eyes and digging his fingers into his arms to remind himself that someone _else_ was touching him. It wasn’t his own hand running through his hair and spreading out warmly on the back of his neck. 

It felt so _good_ and _nice_ , and he sank into it helplessly. 

 

Alex was kind, and gentle, and considerate. Alex was quick to laughter, free with affection, and pleasantly laid-back about everything he did. He was the opposite in many ways to Henri, who was sarcastic, cutting, and occasionally cruel. Henri was more reserved, less inclined to physical contact. Even in appearance, Alex was all light – blonde curls and big blue eyes – and Henri was his reverse with straight black locks and hooded lids over muddy brown irises. 

They had been best friends for years, Alex told him, and Grantaire watched them, puzzling out the ways they fit together. They were both disdainful of politics in general (a stark change to Grantaire’s usual company), ignored sports, and adored American TV shows (Breaking Bad and The Walking Dead in particular). But even in their similarities there were differences – they both enjoyed going out, but Henri preferred clubs while Alex liked bars. Neither could live without their smartphones, but Henri mocked Alex’s addiction to Apple products as he cradled his precious Android. They were equally lazy, but Alex was languid like a housecat where Henri gave the impression of a basking snake, ready to strike at any moment. 

Despite their differences, they couldn’t be apart. They lived together, worked together (or near enough – both sales assistants at different shops in the same shopping centre), and partied together. They seemed to complement each other, and Grantaire found their dynamic fascinating. It might have been inevitable to feel excluded from their closeness, but Grantaire slotted between them, soothed by Alex’s welcome caresses and Henri’s dry wit, so similar to his own. 

 

Bossuet: You coming to the Corinthe tonight? 

Grantaire: For the meeting? 

Bossuet: Yh. 

Grantaire: Nah, not tonight. Have a drink for me. X 

Bossuet: :( 

 

He hadn’t really meant to start spending so much time with Alex and Henri and their friends, but he’d been so turned around by the similarities (if only superficial) between Alex and Enjolras that he just found it simpler to stick with one. And Alex was _easy_. He didn’t roll his eyes at Grantaire’s cynical rants or tell him to stop drinking. He welcomed Grantaire’s hands on him, and returned his kisses. 

He still saw Feuilly at work, and Bahorel at the gym, and of course he went to Marius’ birthday party, but his contact with the others dwindled as he abandoned the Musain and Corinthe in favour of Alex and Henri’s preferred night spots. 

Éponine and Joly dragged him out of his apartment to come out with them and the others on one occasion, and Grantaire promised them all he wouldn’t drift away, but he couldn’t help it. He woke up in Alex’s bed at least three days a week, and it was easier. It was just _easier_ to be with him and Henri and their friends – Jules, Thierry, Floriane, Maud, David, Vincent, Paulette, and many others. It required practically no effort at all to talk with them and relax in their company. None of them were politically minded or took any interest in activism. It was almost refreshing to be among others who cared so little.

 

Grantaire: Hey, did Fantine give us Saturday off? I can’t remember. 

Feuilly: You suck. She did, btw. Good thing too bc I’d hate being inside while all the fun’s happening. 

Grantaire: Fun? 

Feuilly: The demonstration? Did you forget? 

Grantaire: Is this the one against political interference in Morocco or whatever? 

Feuilly: No! This is the one in FAVOUR of extending the same-sex marriage option to foreigners in France. Keep up! 

Grantaire: They all start to blend together after a while. :P 

Feuilly: :P So are you coming on Saturday? 

Grantaire: Nah probably not. Good luck though! 

Feuilly: You should come! 

Grantaire: Right because I bring so much to the table. See you at the studio, asshole. 

Feuilly: Shitsack. 

Grantaire: Butthead. 

Feuilly: Loser. 

Feuilly: You should come. The others miss you. 

Grantaire: One day you’ll make a fine comedian. Tattoo artist on the side, obviously, but you’ll make a killing on the comedy circuit. 

Feuilly: :P 

 

“Oh my god,” Nadine giggled helplessly, and Grantaire laughed with everyone else. “I’m so retarded, I can’t believe myself! Goes to show how much you miss when you drop out of Geography!” 

Grantaire frowned, and Henri noticed, nudging him with raised eyebrows. “What?” 

“Just…” Grantaire hesitated, then shrugged. “You probably shouldn’t say that, y’know.” 

“What, that Geography’s a useless subject?” 

Grantaire snorted. “No, _retarded_. It’s…ah, what is it…ableist or something.” 

“What?” Nadine laughed. “Oh come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“I know.” Grantaire waved a hand. “But you know, it’s the principle of the thing. Perpetration of negative attitudes through casual use of offensive slurs.” 

Henri rolled his eyes. “Bullshit. Total bullshit. They’re just _words_ , for Christ’s sake. It’s like the word slut – it’s not offensive on its own. It’s just a _word_ , just four letters arbitrarily strung together. It’s people who give a word meaning.” 

“But words don’t exist in a vacuum,” Grantaire argued. “They’ve got history and power. You can’t deny that, right? Words have huge power.” 

“Only because we _give_ them power!” Henri proclaimed. “On their own, so-called ‘offensive’ words are just words. They don’t mean anything.” 

“Of course they do!” Grantaire scowled at him. “Define ‘slut’.” 

Henri rolled his eyes and took a gulp of his drink. “A woman who sleeps around.” 

“Right!” Grantaire pointed at him. “It _shouldn’t_ be offensive, but it is. On its own, a woman having a lot of sexual partners shouldn’t be seen as a bad thing. It’s not a bad thing for a guy to sleep around, so why should it be for a woman?” Paulette held up her hand and Grantaire high-fived her absently, still focused on Henri. “Because of the history of female promiscuity being seen as a shameful thing, _slut_ is considered an insult. It has a context it brings with it when it’s used, and that’s unavoidable.” 

“But a woman can call herself a slut!” Henri argued. “If it’s still got all that offensive context, how come she’s allowed to use it and I’m not?” 

“Because she can say she’s reclaiming it,” Grantaire shrugged. “And it becomes a statement when she uses it like that. A kind of ‘fuck the patriarchy’ thing.” 

“Oh my god, shut up, both of you,” Alex groaned. “This is way too serious for a night out. Someone change the subject already!” 

Jules leaned forward immediately and banged his hand on the table. “Okay, okay! Who here bets I can’t finish my drink while doing a handstand?” 

Grantaire settled back into his seat and stole a couple of gulps of Alex’s drink (he’d finished his own a while ago) to ease away his lingering frown. 

Later that night, Alex laughed against his neck, fingers under Grantaire’s shirt. “I didn’t know you were into that shit.” 

“What shit?” Grantaire asked, dazed. He’d never actually gone to bed with Alex while sober, which Alex thought was hilarious. 

“All that political correctness stuff. It was so funny watching you and Henri butt heads.” 

“Yeah?” Grantaire tilted his head back and let his eyelids droop so he could only see a blur of blonde hair and pale skin. “Who did you agree with?” 

“Oh, don’t make me pick sides,” Alex laughed, stepping back to pull Grantaire’s shirt off. 

“It’s not personal,” Grantaire mumbled, stroking a palm down Alex’s smooth back, letting himself be guided to the bed. “Go on, which of us did you agree with?” 

“I’ll tell you later. Could you…?” 

“Sure.” Grantaire slithered down the mattress between Alex’s legs and pulled his jeans and underwear down, helping him kick out of them and licking a rough stripe up his cock. 

(Would Enjolras gasp like that? Would he wind his fingers into Grantaire’s hair and buck up into his mouth? Would he moan? Would Enjolras hook a leg over Grantaire’s back to hold him in place? Would Enjolras act like that? Would he? Would he?) 

“Henri,” Alex murmured afterwards, when the lights were out and the two of them were curled up under his sheets. “I agreed with Henri.” 

 

It had been a stupid idea. Unutterably stupid, but then Grantaire wasn’t exactly renowned for his intelligence. So when Alex had asked if he had plans for the weekend, Grantaire had mentioned the demonstration and Henri had laughed himself breathless before insisting that they all go. Alex couldn’t, it turned out, because of work, but Henri decided to come along. 

“Grantaire!” Jehan ambushed him as soon as he saw him, and Grantaire experienced a horrible, surprising moment of embarrassment as he was embraced by what looked like an explosion in a florist’s, with added glitter. He shoved it down violently and hugged Jehan back, fiercely ignoring the burn of Henri’s incredulous (and doubtlessly amused) stare on his back. “Feuilly said you weren’t coming!” Jehan shouted, pulling away to give Grantaire a brilliant smile. “I’m so glad you came! The others are over here –” 

“I’ll get to them,” Grantaire assured him, laughing. “Relax! How long have you been here?” 

“Since eight, I think.” 

“You’re insane.” 

“I’m dedicated,” Jehan corrected him, grinning. “I’ve got to run – Enjolras needed me to check with Bahorel.” 

“Who’s on perimeter duty?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows and smirked at Jehan’s shrug. “How predictable. I’ll see you later, yeah?” 

“You’d better.” Jehan hugged him again and dashed off, weaving through the crowd expertly. 

Henri appeared next to him as he was brushing glitter off his jacket, stifling a smirk. “So that was…?” 

“Jehan.” Grantaire made sure his tone was casual, like it was totally normal for people to run around in floral-printed _everything_ with streamers dangling from their arms and glitter smudged on their skin. And for Jehan, that _was_ normal – it was a public event: of course he’d dressed up. 

“He’s certainly colourful,” Henri sniggered. 

“He’s brilliant,” Grantaire said firmly. 

“Brilliantly noticeable, I’ll give him that,” Henri snorted. “You wouldn’t lose him in a crowd.” 

“That’s the point,” Grantaire shrugged, carefully not bristling. “He likes standing out. Making a statement.” 

“He definitely does that,” Henri agreed. “Are the others as colourful?” 

“No one’s as colourful as Jehan,” Grantaire said proudly, stepping back to let a few people pass between them. “Come on, let’s get closer to the front.” 

“You’ve done this before, I take it?” Henri stuck close as Grantaire edged his way through the crush. He lifted his head, catching the edge of a familiar voice, but seeing no accompanying blonde head, he sank back again. 

“What?” He blinked at Henri, suddenly realising that he’d spoken. Henri laughed. 

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” 

“What, been to demonstrations?” Grantaire laughed. “Oh, plenty of times.” 

“Why? I thought you didn’t believe in any of this crap.” 

“I don’t. But, y’know, it’s a day out.” 

“I’d rather stay in, to be honest,” Henri snorted, peering around. “Look at all these saps.” 

“Better watch who hears you,” Grantaire warned him. “Not everyone’s as cuddly as Jehan.” 

Henri laughed. “That I can believe. I mean, I’ve never seen anyone so incredibly gay in my life.” 

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “You’ve watched Alex and me making out in your own kitchen. You sure about that?” 

Henri wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, but there’s gay and then there’s _gay_ , you know? And your friend is definitely in the second camp.” 

“You think there’s something wrong with that?” Grantaire asked, stopping to frown at Henri, who lifted his hands. 

“Hey, chill out, you know I’m not an asshole like that. I’m just saying – and Alex’ll back me up on this – you can’t expect to be able to go out like that and not get harassed. It’s asking for trouble. At a place like this, okay, I mean, it’s like dressing up for Pride, right? But if you go out looking like that all the time…” 

“You should be _able_ to though,” Grantaire argued. Something was off, he was sure, something confusing tickling the back of his brain. “You shouldn’t have to worry about that crap.” 

“That’s fucking cute, R,” Henri laughed, not unkindly, “but that’s not the world we live in. Come on, you know that, right? It’s like slapping a ‘kick me’ sign on your own back, for Christ’s sakes! Anyway, we’re getting too serious.” He stepped closer to avoid being crushed by a couple holding a sign boldly proclaiming ‘freedom for everyone’ in rainbow-painted letters. “Let’s find your other friends.” 

“Come on, then.” Grantaire jerked his head. “They’ll be at the front. They always are.” Henri laughed when he did, but Grantaire turned away a second later to frown. Something about that exchange had just been downright weird, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

They made it to the front, and Grantaire caught half a second’s glimpse of Enjolras standing on a wall (holding tight to the fence behind it and looking out over the crowd with a grin on his face, one of his hands holding a rainbow banner in place and what a picture _that_ would make, as a photo or a painting, whichever better captured the energy and bright colours) before his vision was obscured by black curls and an excited shout. “R! Feuilly said you weren’t coming!” 

“Where is he?” a familiar voice shouted, and Grantaire only had that moment’s warning before he was grabbed around the middle from behind and squeezed. “Caught you!” Bahorel laughed. 

Sandwiched between him and Courfeyrac, Grantaire laughed breathlessly. “Nice to see you too, you idiots. Put me down!” 

“What’s the magic word?” Bahorel teased, though Courfeyrac backed off enough to smile at Grantaire properly. 

“ _Now_ , you fucker.” 

Bahorel laughed and released him, and Grantaire turned whip-fast and punched him in the chest, both of them grinning. “Aren’t you meant to be on perimeter patrol?” 

“Combeferre told me to watch Enjolras,” Bahorel snickered. “Thinks he might get himself into _trouble_ , of all things.” 

“What, _Enjolras?_ ” Grantaire played along, feigning shock. “Our great and venerable leader, he of the golden hair and pure ideals, throw himself willingly into a conflict? I can’t think of anything stranger! After all, it’s not like he’s ever behaved recklessly in the past – there’s no precedence for Combeferre’s worrying at all!” 

“None at all,” Courfeyrac agreed, eyes sparkling. “I mean, unless we count his arrest record –” 

“All misunderstandings,” Bahorel said seriously. 

“That time he chained himself to the university gates.” 

“Could’ve happened to anyone.” Grantaire shrugged. 

“And who could forget that memorable occasion where he posted his suspension letter around the administration department, having circled the accusations against him and presented his arguments against each one.” 

“I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm by it,” Bahorel insisted. 

The crowd behind Courfeyrac parted and Enjolras appeared, smirking. Grantaire sucked in a sharp breath – he hadn’t been this close to Enjolras for weeks now. “My ears are burning,” Enjolras said dryly, and his smirk became a pleased smile when he saw Grantaire. “I didn’t know you were coming.” 

“I…” Grantaire looked around and located Henri, beckoning him forward. “I thought I’d show Henri how a _peaceful_ demonstration looks from the other side of the TV screen. I hope you’re not intending on starting a riot and ruining my good intentions.” 

Enjolras shook his head. “Not today, as long as everything goes to plan, and it all seems to be going well so far. How have you been? We haven’t seen you for ages.” 

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, heart leaping. “I’m fine. I’ve been fine. Great, really. You’ve clearly been keeping busy.” He jerked his head at the surrounding crowd and Enjolras smiled. 

“There’s always something to do.” 

“Revolutionaries should always be hurried,” Grantaire smirked, remembering something Enjolras had said once. “Progress has no time to lose.” 

Enjolras cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “Who said that?” 

Grantaire laughed. “ _You_ did. Admittedly a while ago, but my memory has always excelled at picking up scraps of useless information. I can recite poetry as well as Jehan, though I lack his gusto, and I can remember the lyrics to songs I’ve only heard once or twice.” 

“He knows every song from High School Musical,” Courfeyrac smirked, and Grantaire groaned. 

“Don’t remind me. And besides, I’m not the only one, am I?” 

Courfeyrac grinned unrepentantly. “The difference is, _I_ love them. We’re soaring! Flying!” 

“I’ll stab you with a flag,” Grantaire threatened. “Don’t think that I won’t.” 

Enjolras pulled his phone out and frowned at it for a second before his expression lit up. “Combeferre,” he explained. “Apparently some politicians have arrived. Will you stay?” he asked Grantaire, who was taken aback for a second before he gathered the presence of mind to reply. 

“I doubt it.” 

Enjolras seemed to be momentarily disappointed, but then he shrugged and smiled before backing into the crowd. “See you around, then.” 

“I’d better go with him,” Bahorel sighed, punching Grantaire’s shoulder. “See you on Thursday?” Their usual gym day. 

Grantaire nodded. “I’ll be there.” 

“You’d better be.” Bahorel saluted before hurrying after Enjolras. Courfeyrac laughed at Grantaire. 

“You look so surprised! I told you we’ve all been missing you, Enjolras included.” 

“Why?” Grantaire was dumbstruck. 

“Wow, maybe it’s because we _like_ you, dumbass,” Courfeyrac snorted, ruffling Grantaire’s hair until he ducked away, grinning despite himself. “ _All_ of us – Enjolras too.” 

“I’m touched, Courfeyrac! Who knew a statue could feel?” 

“Everyone except you, apparently.” Courfeyrac smacked the side of his head gently and laughed. “Now, I want to verbally abuse some politicians – you coming?” 

“Nah, but you kids have fun,” Grantaire smirked, waving him away. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes but gave him a quick hug before he darted away, weaving through the people with practised ease. Henri came up to his side once he was gone, a small frown on his face which vanished when he saw Grantaire looking at him. 

“Takes all types to make a world, I guess,” he shrugged. 

“How d’you mean?” 

“I mean I wouldn’t get so excited at the prospect of bitching out some guy in a suit,” Henri smirked. “They’re adorable, R! Why didn’t you warn me? I can’t believe people like that actually exist! Is that blonde guy for real?” 

“One hundred percent.” Grantaire was strangely torn between pride and irritation. “I know it looks kind of like an act when you first meet them, but they’re all really into this. They’re passionate about it. And you know…I think it’s kind of inspiring.” 

Henri raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Grantaire frowned, slipping into the defensive. “You know, that they’re willing to put all their time into this. They really want to change things for the better.” 

“You think they’re really doing it for other people?” Henri asked lightly. “Not just getting a hard-on by sticking it to the man?” 

“Hey, they’re for real,” Grantaire said firmly. “Trust me. I’ve spent enough time around them to know.” 

Henri shrugged. “Okay, I believe you. Want to get coffee? All these rainbows are giving me a headache.” 

“And a coffee will clear that right up,” Grantaire snorted, but he led Henri out of the crowd obligingly, pushing down disappointment when he didn’t bump into any of the others. 

 

Grantaire looked up and smiled when now-familiar arms draped over his shoulders. Alex crooned into his ear, “So I hear I’m dating a secret activist?” 

Grantaire laughed and turned around, closing his laptop and meeting Alex’s kiss halfway. “Henri told you about this morning then?” 

“Oh yeah.” Alex looked highly amused. “Should I be worried? Do you sign petitions on the sly, R? Make protest signs behind closed doors? Do you…” he gasped, putting a hand to his mouth as if scandalised. “Champion a cause?” 

Grantaire laughed, turning around properly and kneeling up on the chair to push a hand through Alex’s hair. “Don’t you know me at all?” 

“Ah, forgive me,” Alex grinned, brushing their noses together. “Of course, you believe in nothing but your full glass.” 

“Quite right,” Grantaire muttered, closing the distance between them and smiling against Alex’s lips. But something in him held back – the same sensation he’d had earlier with Henri, arguing after they’d met Jehan. 

He wasn’t the type to turn his gaze inward – why linger on the internal tangle of his inadequacies, after all? – but even though he tried to ignore it, the niggling suspicion that something had changed stuck with him, taking root. He realised what it was a few days later, listening to Alex, Henri, and Paulette complain about the Greenpeace activists distributing pamphlets outside the métro station earlier. He opened his mouth to argue and paused, closing it again slowly. None of the others noticed. 

Was it his natural desire to stir up a conflict that made him want to argue on behalf of the activists? Like he’d defended his friends to Henri at the demonstration? 

He lifted his glass to his lips and drank. (His only certainty: a full glass.) 

Henri leaned against the wall outside his and Alex’s apartment building next to him later, both of them taking a weed break. “Funny, isn’t it?” 

“Hm?” Grantaire looked at him slowly, a little befuddled and pleasantly drunk. “What?” 

Henri took a deep drag and held it in for a second before exhaling through his nose. “They look very similar, right? Alex and your blonde friend from the weekend?” 

Enjolras. Grantaire’s heart seemed to freeze for a second, but he shook his head and smiled. “Nah, not really. I mean, not when you look close. It’s only the hair.” 

“No it isn’t.” Henri blew a stream of smoke into the air. “It’s more than that. Their voices, and their faces…” 

Grantaire shook his head. “Not that much, not really.” Why was he panicking? Why – 

“R.” Henri inhaled the last of his joint before dropping it to the ground and letting it smoulder. “I saw the way you looked at him.” 

“At Alex?” 

“No, the other one, on Saturday.” 

Grantaire shook his head frantically, and laughed. “I didn’t…I wasn’t –” 

“Sure,” Henri interrupted, shrugging easily and standing up straight, brushing himself down. “Right, because that’s ridiculous.” 

“Right,” Grantaire parroted, absurdly nervous. 

Henri leaned close, hooded eyes fixed on Grantaire’s, deceptively relaxed. “You’d have to be really _fucked up_ to pull something like that.” He backed up and didn’t smile. “See you inside.” 

Grantaire couldn’t reply, and his joint burned down as he stood there in silence, utterly stunned. The flash of sudden pain as the skin of his knuckles was singed snapped him out of it, making him jump and shake his head, trying to clear it. 

“I’m way too drunk for this,” he muttered, stumbling back to the door. 

Henri had gone to bed when he found Alex on the sofa, laughing at something on the TV. Just the back of his head was visible over the cushions, dishwater blonde curls and a happy laugh shaking them, and Grantaire had to fight the urge to fall to his knees because…because… 

“I don’t know how to say it,” he whispered. “A day is long and I will be waiting for you…” 

It was as if, for a brief moment, Enjolras was sitting there, laughing, waiting for Grantaire to join him. 

Then Alex turned around and the world stopped spinning. Grantaire managed a shaky smile and Alex laughed. “Too much to drink?” 

Grantaire had to cough before he answered, “Maybe.” 

Alex got up and switched off the TV. “Bed then. Come on.” 

It was as if he was detached from what was happening, watching himself from behind a barrier (a cracking screen) as they undressed and exchanged easy kisses (everything with Alex was always so easy) before falling into Alex’s bed. 

He was numb, not feeling Alex’s skin against his, not feeling the warmth or smoothness. And every other moment… 

Enjolras in the turn of Alex’s lips, in the curve of his thigh. Enjolras in the way Alex murmured, “R,” and Enjolras _right there_ when Alex rolled onto his stomach, reaching for the bedside table. Grantaire scrambled away, breathing heavily, confusion and disbelief tearing through him like blades, blunt and rough like claws. 

“R?” Alex was there when Enjolras rolled back over, frowning in concern. “Are you okay?” 

Grantaire shook his head wildly, backing away. “I can’t, I have…I have to go, I…” He ripped his gaze away (from _Alex_ , _Alex_ on the bed, _not_ Enjolras, how had he been so _stupid?_ ) and grabbed his discarded jeans, jerking away from Alex’s outstretched hand as he approached. Alex recoiled and Grantaire grabbed his shirt from the floor and forgot about socks in favour of grabbing his shoes, stumbling out of the bedroom towards the door. 

“R, what’s wrong? Was it something you smoked?” 

“I have to go,” Grantaire insisted, avoiding his eyes (not quite the same blue as Enjolras’, but similar, just enough to fool someone who wasn’t looking too close, just alike enough to deceive an idiot). “I can’t, I have to…” 

“R, tell me what’s wrong!” Alex shouted, grabbing Grantaire’s arm as he tore his jacket from the hook behind the door. Grantaire shook him off and wrenched the door open, running out in bare feet and ignoring Alex’s calls. He wouldn’t follow, not naked. He would wake Henri and ask what they’d smoked. 

And Henri would tell him _everything_. 

Grantaire’s heart hammered against his straining lungs, his throat sore from heavy breathing and panicked gasps. He didn’t pull his shoes on until he was two streets away, and they immediately began to rub against his heels. 

He yanked his jacket over his arms and stumbled against a wall, ignoring the giggles of a group of girls passing by. The memories and images in his head were running together, stirred like two colours of paint, blending and mixing too closely to be separated out. 

Enjolras laughing in the Musain; Alex’s crinkled eyes and upturned lips. The face Alex made when he came; Enjolras’ shouting cutting through a crowd. Alex talking to Henri; the gestures Enjolras made when he spoke to Combeferre. 

Alex-Enjolras-Alex and back again, spinning and whirling. Alolras, Enlex…the shade of their skins, the colour of their eyes, the pitch of their voices. 

He was on the ground, pavement cold under his palms, and Grantaire shuddered and flinched as a hand touched his shoulder. “Are you alright?” 

A woman. Nothing like either of the boys in his head. He looked up with bleary eyes and stared helplessly. She was younger than him, probably a student, with dyed green hair and a purple knitted hat. “Are you alright?” she asked again, offering a hand. He grabbed it and let her pull him up, breaking away to lean heavily against the wall behind him. “You want me to call someone for you?” Concerned and anxious, a higher tone than the voices blending together in his mind. 

“No.” He shook his head – a stupid idea; it set the world tilting again, and he had to grab onto the wall to stay upright. “No, I…where…what’s the nearest métro station?” 

“I’ll take you,” she said, stepping close to wrap an arm around his waist. “It’s only round the corner – I just came from there. What’s your name?” 

“R,” Grantaire muttered. 

“I’m Julie. Do you know where you’re going?” 

“A friend’s,” he said, swallowing hard. “Jehan. I’m going to Jehan’s.” 

“He’ll take care of you?” 

“Yeah. He’s…I’ve slept on his floor before.” 

“Okay then, as long as you’re sure. I could call you a taxi?” 

“No, no, I’m fine, I just…” He gestured with a limp hand behind them. “I fell, I’m fine now, really.” 

Julie gave him her number to call if he ran into any trouble and apologised for not being able to wait with him. He assured her he would be okay – he’d made it home in worse states than this before, he was an old hand at this, really, he was fine, he was _fine_ – and he sat on his own in the empty station and tried not to drift away again. 

(It was difficult when he couldn’t help remembering things Enjolras had said and done, mixing them up with the way Alex’s skin felt under his tongue and the gentle miracle that was offering a kiss that he knew would be reciprocated.) 

Jehan answered the door exactly five seconds after Grantaire rang the bell, and didn’t say a word. Just stood aside to let Grantaire in and closed the door behind him. He made up the sofa and tutted at Grantaire’s red-raw heels when he removed his shoes, and he gave him a glass of water and a clean pair of boxers to sleep in (Grantaire had left his behind in his haste to leave). 

“Go to sleep,” Jehan whispered, and Grantaire obeyed, his last memory a painful, confusing blend of Alex and Enjolras’ faces, and Jehan’s hand in his hair, soothing him to sleep. 

 

Grantaire woke slowly, a headache lingering like a threat in the corners of his eyes, the duvet wrapped around him like a protective cocoon. Jehan’s face was there when he opened his eyes, a hand on his shoulder, and Grantaire blinked several times before pulling a hand up to scrub at his eyes. Jehan sat back on his heels and smiled sadly. 

“What time is it?” Grantaire croaked. 

“Nearly noon. I called in sick.” 

“Sorry,” Grantaire mumbled. The first apology he’d made, and he closed his eyes, utterly wretched. Jehan made a soft sound and squeezed his shoulder through the duvet. 

“Grantaire, what happened?” 

“I really fucked up,” Grantaire whispered, and his face crumpled. 

“Oh, Grantaire –” 

“I’m such an idiot.” Grantaire pressed his fingers against his eyes, head throbbing. “I’m such an idiot, I’m so _stupid_ …” 

“You’re not stupid.” 

“I am, I really am. I’m such a fucking idiot.” 

Jehan sighed and edged closer to take Grantaire’s hands in his and press their foreheads together gently. “You’re not stupid,” he said quietly, a firm statement that made Grantaire’s chest hitch, both clinging to the assurance and rebelling at what was clearly a lie. If he wasn’t stupid, he was at the very _least_ blind. How could he not have seen? How could he have been so dumb? Jehan squeezed his hands. “Tell me what happened,” he said, and Grantaire did. 

 

“I _never_ meant to hurt anyone.”

“I know.” 

 

The wind whipped Grantaire’s hair around his head, chilling his ears and nose and drawing stinging tears to his eyes. He squinted and hunched his shoulders, pushing himself up the hill to where Alex had asked to meet him. 

He almost didn’t recognise him for a second, though who else would be up here, sitting on a bench and waiting for a fool in this cold? 

“You cut your hair,” Grantaire said instead of hello, and Alex nodded, lifting a gloved hand to his head, hair cut so short there wasn’t even a hint of curls. 

“It was getting in my eyes.” 

Grantaire sat down next to him, a good foot of space between them. An unbreachable gap he’d never expected to open up between them. ( _Stupid_ , he was so _stupid_.) 

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” Alex said, voice flat and hollow, and Grantaire wondered for a horrified second whether he’d cried when he’d found out. 

He couldn’t say a word, and Alex glanced at him with empty eyes before looking forward again and saying, “Henri told me about the guy at the demonstration. The leader. He couldn’t remember his name.” He turned to Grantaire expectantly and Grantaire looked at his knees, humiliated flush burning under his scarf. 

“Enjolras,” he whispered, and Alex nodded. 

“Enjolras,” he repeated. The man he now knew he had only been a replacement for. A pale imitation of the true object of Grantaire’s affections. 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire managed to say. They were weak words in the face of what he had done. “I really…I’m so sorry.” 

“Yeah.” Alex clearly felt the same way. “Goodbye, Grantaire.” 

Grantaire lurched to his feet and opened his mouth to apologise again before thinking the better of it and turning away, shame a second skin under his coat, self-disgust a cloak trailing the air behind him. 

 

According to Facebook, he’d missed more meetings than he cared to count, two sit-ins, four demonstrations (three peaceful, one that had to be broken up by the police after a counter-protest group turned up), five awareness days (they’d set up tables and distributed flyers and pamphlets), and twelve petitions. 

He added his signature to the petitions, not even looking at what they were for, and trawled through everyone’s Facebook feeds and the official Les Amis blog to catch up on what they’d been doing. They sounded normal. Happy. Enthusiastic. Business as usual, carrying on perfectly well without him. It wasn’t like he’d ever contributed anything useful anyway. 

Every time he thought of what he’d done – how stupid he’d been – he could barely breathe for shame. He couldn’t bring himself to face the others, and the thought of seeing Enjolras again made him feel sick. He’d disrespected Enjolras _and_ Alex with his idiocy and deception, and he didn’t deserve either of them (not that he ever had in the first place). He stopped going to the gym, he skipped the shifts he shared with Feuilly at the parlour, and he didn’t return anyone’s calls or texts. Whenever someone knocked at his door, he pretended he wasn’t in. 

How could he look any of them in the eye, knowing how little he deserved their company? 

 

“No.” 

Grantaire frowned, bemused. “What?” 

Fantine didn’t look up from her desk, where she was engaged in the tricky task of tracing a full-sized back-piece onto a single sheet of transfer paper. “I said no,” she said simply. “You’re not quitting.”

“Isn’t that…kind of my choice?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow. Fantine smiled at the flower she was drawing. 

“Normally, it would be, but I don’t think you’re in a good place right now, so I’m going to say no. What I _will_ do is give you some time off, though I think you’ve given yourself enough with all those shifts you’ve begged out of – and don’t think I haven’t noticed you only avoid the ones you share with Feuilly.” 

“But –” 

“Sh-sh-sh. I’m not letting you quit, Grantaire.” 

“Why not?” Grantaire asked plaintively. 

“Well, for one thing, you’re sinfully talented, and letting you go would be a criminal waste of a promising apprentice. For another, I _know_ you don’t have another regular job, and I don’t want you to starve or get evicted when you inevitably run out of money. Thirdly.” She put her pen aside and looked up at him, a kind smile on her face. “I consider you a friend, and friends look out for each other. Now, do me a favour and scrub down the front before you leave?” 

“I…” Grantaire’s protestations died in the face of Fantine’s expectant smile. “Okay.” 

“Thank you.” 

Grantaire had just finished wiping the front desk when the door opened. He turned with the intention of telling whoever it was that they were closed, but the words faded when he saw Feuilly standing there, mouth open in surprise. 

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire asked, staring right back at him. 

“Fantine called me,” Feuilly muttered. “Christ, R, you look like you haven’t slept for a week.” 

“I’m fine,” Grantaire said automatically just as Fantine came in from the back, smiling. 

“Oh good, you came. I’ll email you about time off, okay, Grantaire? See you tomorrow, Feuilly.” She took the cloth from Grantaire and shooed them out, locking the door behind them with a grin. 

The most devious people Grantaire knew had the most innocent faces. Cosette, Jehan, and Fantine were prime examples. 

“I’ll see you around,” Grantaire muttered, making to walk off. Feuilly jumped alongside him and shook his head. 

“Oh no, I’m not letting you off that easy. Come on, come back to ours. You haven’t been to the gym for three weeks now – Bahorel’s freaking out. He went over to your place but you weren’t in. Or you weren’t answering, at least.” 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Grantaire said flatly. Feuilly grabbed his arm and stopped him, pulling him round to glare at him. 

“Then how about you stop acting like a fucking child? What the hell is up with you? You think you can just drop off the map and we won’t notice?” Grantaire looked away and Feuilly sighed, his hand turning gentle on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Come over to ours, okay? We’ll get pizza or something. I won’t take no for an answer.” 

Grantaire’s lips twitched against his will. “Course you won’t.” 

Feuilly grinned, and slid his arm round Grantaire’s back to turn him around and lead him down the road. “Come on then.” 

Bahorel was playing Bioshock with his back to the door when they went in. “What did Fantine want?” he asked without looking around. 

“She wanted to know if we were adopting,” Feuilly called, putting the chain on the door. 

“What?” 

“Look who I brought back!” 

Bahorel glanced over his shoulder quickly, then broke into a huge grin and abandoned his game in favour of jumping over the back of the sofa and running towards them. “R!” Grantaire didn’t have time to protest before he’d been lifted off his feet, the breath wheezing out of him as Bahorel squeezed. “Where’ve you _been?_ ” Bahorel asked, letting him down and holding him at arm’s length. “I know I’m tough competition, but that’s no reason to stop trying!” 

Grantaire stared at him in confusion. “What?” 

“Gym,” Bahorel said, raising his eyebrows and looking him up and down. “Fucking hell, you lost weight. Are you ill?” 

“No.” Only mentally. 

“Well seriously then, where the hell have you been?” Bahorel’s mood shifted, his brow furrowing. “I came over last week and you wouldn’t answer, and don’t say you weren’t in, because I know you were.” 

Feuilly muttered, “Bahorel –” 

“And what’s with the silent treatment? Have you answered _any_ calls recently?” 

Feuilly grabbed Bahorel’s arm and evidently something in his expression forced Bahorel to swallow his anger, at least for the time being. Grantaire wasn’t sure whether he’d rather be shouted at – God knew he deserved it. 

“Order pizza,” Feuilly told Bahorel firmly before turning to Grantaire. “And then you can tell us what the hell’s going on.” 

Grantaire closed his eyes. “Ask Jehan.” 

“Right then,” Bahorel said grimly. “Hawaiian for Feuilly, meat feast for me, Mediterranean for Grantaire, and vegetarian for Jehan. I’m on it.” 

“It’s on us,” Feuilly said before Grantaire could mumble something about paying them back. 

 

Jehan brought Courfeyrac and Éponine with him, and they both insisted they’d already eaten so there was no need to share the pizza with them. Clearly a lie to stop Feuilly and Bahorel giving their food away, but no one mentioned it. Grantaire picked at his pizza while everyone danced merrily around the issue of what the hell was wrong with him, and Jehan bumped his shoulder with his forehead like a cat. 

“Can I tell Courfeyrac and Éponine too?” he asked softly. “They’ve been really worried. Éponine was ready to break into your apartment to check you were still alive.” 

Grantaire glanced at Éponine, who smiled humourlessly and cracked her knuckles. The display almost made Grantaire smile – he’d missed this. He’d missed _them_. “Sure,” he muttered. “Go for it. Hey, Bahorel?” 

“Mm?” 

“Can I use the shower?” 

Bahorel swallowed his mouthful and nodded. “Borrow some clothes while you’re at it.” 

“Tell them now,” Grantaire told Jehan under his breath before he got up and slipped out. He didn’t want to be there while Jehan revealed the extent of his disgrace. 

He’d used Bahorel and Feuilly’s shower plenty of times, usually after crashing on their sofa after a heavy night out, and he resisted the urge to turn the heat up to scorching – he didn’t want to eat into their water bill. 

When he came back into the main room, wearing one of Bahorel’s t-shirts, Éponine got up and came to stand nose-to-nose with him. Grantaire shrunk away, and she waited until he looked at her properly before saying, “Well it explains things a bit, I suppose.” She paused and gave him a calculating look. “You going to finish your pizza?” 

He smiled slightly. “You can have it.” 

“We’re sharing it, dickweed.” She grabbed his wrist and towed him over to the sofa, pushing him down next to Courfeyrac and putting herself on his other side. “Eat up.” 

He took the cold slice she gave him and glanced quickly round at the others. “I’ve been a real idiot,” he said quietly. 

Courfeyrac sighed and slipped an arm round his waist, and Bahorel and Feuilly exchanged an unreadable look. “You’ve been a bit of a tit, yeah,” Éponine said bluntly. “But mostly because you’ve been avoiding us like the plague. I’m staying over yours tonight, okay?” 

“Do I get a say in this?” he asked. 

“No. Eat your pizza.” 

 

The first time he’d come back to the meetings, it had been like watching a complicated dance of distraction and devilry, seeing the way everyone conspired to keep Enjolras’ attention away from him. Grantaire still knew he didn’t deserve their help, but he was grateful for it all the same. He barely had a moment on his own, and it would have been irritating if it wasn’t so welcome. Their constant presence left him with less time to feel guilty, though he still managed to fit in a fair amount – not difficult when he couldn’t even _look_ at Enjolras without thinking of the times he’d touched Alex and subconsciously pretended he was a different blonde. He doubted he would ever stop hating himself for that. 

He wasn’t sure how many of them knew the full story, but Cosette knew more than she was letting on, and Combeferre could have easily brought down a country with the secrets he kept. Feuilly and Fantine kept him busy at the parlour, Bahorel thrashed him soundly at the gym (“It’ll motivate you to get stronger!”), and everyone else seemed genuinely pleased to have him back among them. 

“Well of course we are,” Jehan rolled his eyes when Grantaire mentioned it, the two of them smoking lazily out of his window. “It was weird without you there.” 

“ _Why_ though?” Grantaire tried and failed to blow smoke rings. Jehan smirked, took the joint from him, and produced three perfect O’s. 

“Hey!” he laughed as Grantaire swiped his hand through them, turning them into shapeless wisps. “Well…it was just weird. Like a piece was missing. You bring a certain… _something_ to the table.” 

Grantaire snorted. “ _Something_ , yeah. A bad attitude and buckets of scepticism.” 

“More than that,” Jehan grinned, leaning his head back against the wall and taking a deep drag. “It’s like…it’s like a stew. Or…a melting pot of some kind. You can’t say why one ingredient matters more than the others, because they’re _all_ needed to improve the flavour. On their own, they’re not so great. Not fantastic, anyway. But all together…” He smiled and met Grantaire’s eyes. “All together they make a perfect meal.” 

“Hungry, Jehan?” Grantaire teased, stealing the joint. “Getting the munchies already?” 

“Shut up,” Jehan laughed. “My point stands, capital R. You are needed, as much as I am needed, and Courfeyrac, and Joly, and all of us.” 

“What’s my ingredient in this great stew then?” Grantaire tapped the ash from the tip of the joint over the street below. “Something bitter, no doubt.” 

“Salt,” Jehan decided. “You enhance the flavour by highlighting the differences.” 

“That makes no sense.” 

“I am a poet,” Jehan proclaimed. “I don’t need to make sense.” 

“Well, you sound like a better poet than a cook.” 

Jehan pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “You wound me. Anyway, I can’t tell you exactly what you add, because it’s an inexpressible quality, but I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that we missed it, whatever it is. Whatever you are.” He gestured to Grantaire with a languid arm. “Whatever elements you are made up of, whatever starry mix that bubbles under your skin and fizzes in your brain that makes you _you_ …it is important, and very much needed. We are not balanced when one of us is absent. I mean, how would you feel if I vanished for weeks on end?” 

“Bereft, obviously,” Grantaire smiled. Jehan nodded regally. 

“Quite right. Now, I’m bored.” He finished the joint and stubbed it out on the windowsill. “Take me out dancing.” 

“Your wish is my command.” 

 

In the draft folder of his phone, unsent texts to Alex: 

Grantaire: I really am sorry. 

Grantaire: I never meant 

Grantaire: I know I’m fucked up I didn’t 

Grantaire: I’m sorry. 

Grantaire: So the thing about Enjolr 

Grantaire: I reallly did likee yu honestlyyyyy im so sorry sorrysorry im so so sorry i know i fuked up fucked up i’m so stupid i know nd i didnt mean to hurt you or make u cut your har i mean if ou did tht for me fuck you probly didnt becuse why would you i probaby soundr eally arrogant im sossorry 

Grantaire: Hi, it’s R. I just wanted to tell you that you and Enjolras aren’t that much alike really. Not where it matters. So you shouldn’t ever feel like I was settling for you or substituting him or anything like that. Look, I know I’ve been a bastard, and I know I don’t deserve forgiveness or anything like that but I can’t stop thinking about the last time I saw you and all the things I should have said. I mean, I know I said sorry, but it wasn’t enough and I know that. It’s not your fault, any of this. I’m just fucked up. I don’t think you ever saw me at my worst, maybe because it wasn’t really contrasted against my friends. And Enjolras. I’m 

Grantaire: Hi, it’s R. I just wondered if you wanted to meet up? Probably not, but I feel like I haven’t apologised enough. I feel like shit, and I know I deserve that, but if you wanted to yell at me then 

Grantaire: Hi. 

Grantaire: I lov him im sorryyyyyyyyy im sucha prick god god i hate myself fr wat i did i raluy do i just 

Grantaire: wnna explin bcsse i was in a badplace when i met youi its nt yur fault but Enjolras is just so beutifl somtimes ithurds to loooookk at him shldnt say that im sory but i saw you and u lookd so mcuh like him and yu were so niice it was mazng yourre amazing i diddn know i was pretendniging but i was only it was in my succonsous i didnt mean to hurt anyone i prmoise promisse promise i promise im sorrynand when i met ouy atthat time i was messd up becaus i lovded him so much anf it hurt so much i didnt men to acccidnatally take it out on you and i stl still love hi m im sors rry fuck fc im sorrysor ysiryyy sorrysorrysorry 

Grantaire: Hi. 

 

Courfeyrac examined the picture on Grantaire’s ancient phone and nodded. “He _does_ look a lot like Enjolras, I’ll give you that. Missing something though.” 

Grantaire took the phone back and put it in his pocket. He’d meant to delete all the photos of Alex, but there were a few he couldn’t let go of just yet. Mainly the ones where he looked the most like himself – it had been horrible going through them and seeing how many he’d taken to capture a moment where Alex looked more like Enjolras. 

“The divine spark,” he muttered. “Enjolras has divinity in buckets. Alex is…normal. Nice, but normal.” 

Courfeyrac scooped salt into his palm and licked it, taking a shot of tequila afterwards and grimacing. They’d forgotten to buy limes. “I know what you mean,” he said after he’d smoothed the pained expression from his face. “Usually it’s not…not so noticeable, but then he’ll start speaking…” 

“Apollo preaches from the mountain,” Grantaire murmured, holding out his hand for the bottle. Courfeyrac handed it to him and he took a gulp without bothering with salt. “But there, you see? I told you they looked like brothers. I can’t believe I didn’t realise what I was doing. I’m _such_ an idiot.” 

Courfeyrac patted his shoulder unsteadily. “All men are fools in love,” he said seriously, his tone somewhat undermined by his body language. “Iss difficult. And we never know whether to…y’know, interfere or not.” 

“Don’t,” Grantaire said quickly. “I’ve had enough embarrassment to last a lifetime.” 

“No, but…” Courfeyrac sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know…we don’t know whether or not to tell you stuff in case…well in case it makes things worse, I s’pose.” 

“Tell me stuff?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows and shuffled closer. “Tell me what?” 

“No no no, I shouldn’t.” Courfeyrac shook his head. “Iss not even big stuff, really.” 

“So it’s not a big deal.” 

“But it might not mean what you _want_ it to mean, you know what I mean?” 

Grantaire blinked, then nodded. “I think so. Go on, just tell me.” 

“There’s nothing to _tell_.” 

“Hey, I showed you Alex.” 

Courfeyrac sighed and closed his eyes, sinking back into the sofa cushions. “Should’ve stayed at the club.” 

“It was shit, and you wanted tequila.” Grantaire leaned against him, pressing their sides together. “You said it wasn’t a big deal anyway, so what does it matter?” 

“It might matter to you, I don’t know…” 

“Let me decide.” 

Courfeyrac took a deep breath and frowned. “Fine. So…it’s just little stuff, like I said, little things…like, like when you first started going out with Alex…Enjolras…he noticed when you stopped turning up, and at the demonstration you brought your other friend to, he was really happy you came, and he was disappointed when he found out you’d left again so soon. He asks Feuilly whether you’re coming to meetings, and he…y’know, he’s getting all sulky and confused recently, which is actually funny, really…” 

“Why’s he sulky and confused?” Grantaire asked, bewildered. 

Courfeyrac laughed without opening his eyes. “It’s kind of obvious we’ve been keeping him away from you. I think he thinks he pissed you off or something. Maybe. I don’t know. Little things, like I said. Like…y’know on Wednesday, when you got into that argument with Joly about…that thing, what was it?” 

“Um…” Grantaire thought back. “Graffiti, I think.” 

“Right! Yeah, and y’know how Enjolras just likes to sit back and listen to us all go on sometimes?” 

Grantaire only let himself smile because Courfeyrac couldn’t see him. “Yeah.” 

“He was _obviously_ listening to you and Joly, and he was just…y’know, he was just happy you were back, I think. He’s like…a pack animal. Only happy when he can see everyone. I mean, we could do a lot of our stuff online, but he always likes the meetings better. He comes out even when he doesn’t like it, like tonight, did you see?” 

Enjolras never danced, and hardly drank, but on the occasions when a lot of them went out together he almost always came along. Grantaire nodded. “I get it, yeah.” 

“Right.” Courfeyrac’s hand flapped, finding Grantaire’s thigh and patting it absently. “He just likes it when we’re all together, and I totally get that. And you do too, right?” He opened his eyes and leaned his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder, staring at him with wide brown eyes. “You know what I mean. You’re better with us, right? You’re not annoyed because we keep…keep keeping you company?” 

He sounded so anxious that Grantaire kissed his forehead impulsively – physical affection was always the best way to calm Courfeyrac down. “It should be annoying,” he admitted, “but it isn’t.” 

Courfeyrac smiled, relieved. “Good. You and me…we’re like…we like being in the middle of stuff. So it’s hard sometimes to see the whole picture. Enjolras _watches_ more than he partic…participates, so he _sees_ more but he _looks_ colder, if that makes sense.” 

Grantaire laughed. “Yeah, I get you.” 

“Awesome.” Courfeyrac closed his eyes and snuggled up against Grantaire’s side. “Get the blanket, R?” 

“Mm-hm.” Grantaire reached over and dragged the blanket over both of them, his own eyelids drooping. Only with Courfeyrac could tiredness be contagious. 

“You’re awesome,” Courfeyrac mumbled. 

“You’re drunk,” Grantaire snorted, turning the lamp off and closing his eyes. 

“Drunken lips speak the truest words. Is that a poem?” 

“No idea, ask Jehan.” 

“Remind me tomorrow. Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

 

In the draft folder of his phone, unsent messages to Henri: 

Grantaire: I know how this sounds, but I swear I didn’t realise. 

Grantaire: Is Alex okay? 

Grantaire: I’m sorry. I really didn’t realise – I didn’t know I was so good at deluding myself, honestly. 

Grantaire: Does he hate me? 

Grantaire: Hi, it’s R. I just wondered if you 

Grantaire: Hi, it’s R. I just wondered if you’d like to meet up? I just 

Grantaire: Coulld you dom e a fvaour n tell alex im sorry im relly sorry i 

 

He’d had enough to drink that he didn’t startle like a wild animal when Enjolras dropped into the empty chair on the little table he, Marius, and Joly were sitting at. “Grantaire.” 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire dipped his head, mimicking Enjolras’ serious tone. Marius smiled and Joly started to shuffle the deck of cards. “Care to join us?” 

“I…okay.” Enjolras glanced at Joly. “What are you playing?” 

“Shithead,” Marius said cheerfully. 

“Fine, deal me in. Grantaire, Combeferre said you might be able to help out with something?” 

“If it’s designing flyers or posters, I’ve told you before – Feuilly’s much more reliable than me and Azelma’s better at formatting.” 

“It’s nothing like that.” Enjolras shook his head and began arranging his cards as Joly dealt them – three face-down on the table, six in his hand. He studied them for a moment before placing a king, a seven, and an ace on top of the cards in front of him. “Combeferre said you’d know the best place to make about a thousand cookies in one day?” 

Joly laughed. “You want a bakery or a big kitchen?” 

Enjolras smiled slightly. “A big kitchen, preferably.” 

“This is for the shelters, right?” Marius asked, frowning at his cards. 

“Yes.” 

Grantaire put a seven, an eight, and a two down on his face-down cards and glanced at Enjolras, concentrating very hard on not remembering anything to do with Alex. “What’s your plan here, exactly?” 

“We want to make roughly a thousand cookies and sell them, and then give the proceedings to Paris’ homeless shelters,” Enjolras explained, a little exasperated. “Weren’t you listening earlier?” 

“I actually only got here ten minutes ago,” Grantaire managed to grin, and was secretly quite proud of himself for it. 

“Oh, sorry. Well, we’d like to commandeer a kitchen to make them. A big one, obviously, so a canteen of some kind would be best. Combeferre said you might know somewhere? According to him you know the best places for everything.” 

“Your turn,” Grantaire nodded to Enjolras’ hand, and he glanced at the cards in the centre and put one of his down on top of them, taking one from the deck afterwards. Grantaire played and chewed his lip, thinking. They played two rounds before he nodded at Enjolras. “I might know a place – a primary school. I know they’ve lent their kitchen out before, so they might be willing to do it for you. You’d be bringing your own ingredients and stuff, right?” 

“Of course.” 

“Of course.” Grantaire bowed his head and gave him a mocking smile. “How foolish of me to even raise the question. St Jude’s is the name. Patron saint of the lost, as I understand it, which is rather fitting for a school full of children. Shall I email you the details or will you be able to find them?” 

“Probably better email me just to be on the safe side,” Enjolras said, burning the pile and starting on his cards on the table. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me till they agree,” Grantaire cautioned him. 

“Will you be helping us if they do?” Enjolras asked. 

“With the baking of these cookies?” Grantaire smiled crookedly at his cards and lifted his tumbler. “Only if you want a few of them to have a distinctly Irish kick.” He smirked and took a drink, the whisky warming his insides. 

“We’ll see you there then,” Joly grinned. “I hope you wear that apron Éponine gave you.” 

Grantaire snorted, and Marius explained to Enjolras, “It’s one of those ‘kiss the cook’ ones, and Éponine made it the rule that you have to kiss whoever wears it whenever you walk past them or exchange anything to do with cooking. Like handing them a spoon or something.” 

“She only did it so she could cover me in lipstick,” Grantaire grumbled. “I refuse to touch that thing.” 

“You know she’ll make you wear it,” Joly laughed. 

“I’ll make _her_ wear it,” Grantaire countered. “See how she likes being accosted by everyone she stands next to.” 

Enjolras didn’t laugh, but he did smile, and Grantaire avoided Joly and Marius’ eyes, the flutter of his heart countered by the sting of ever-present guilt because he couldn’t help noticing the similarities between Enjolras and Alex even now, even having studied both and carefully noting the differences (which far outnumbered the parallels) between them. 

It was lucky he’d had so much practise putting on a mask, though he supposed in retrospect that his ability to deceive had been more of a problem than a gift of late. 

 

Jehan: So on a scale of 1-10, how much do you want to meet a guy I know from the slam circuit? Great sense of humour, good-looking, gay as a window? 

Grantaire: 0, sorry. 

Jehan: On a scale of 1-10, how much are you in love with Enjolras? 

Grantaire: Please don’t. 

Jehan: On a scale of 1-10, how much are you still torturing yourself over the Alex thing? 

Grantaire: Jehan… 

Jehan: I see. 

Grantaire: Sorry. 

Jehan: What are you apologising for? 

Grantaire: I know you’re all trying to keep my mind off it and I’m just being a bit shit. 

Jehan: Your reluctance to go out with anyone right now is perfectly understandable. X 

Grantaire: How are you always so nice? 

Jehan: It’s my gift. It’s my curse. I AM SPIDER-MAN! What are you doing right now? 

Grantaire: Stuck on YouTube, casually drinking. You? 

Jehan: On my way over. 

Grantaire: Why? 

Jehan: Because I’ve been suddenly overwhelmed with an inexplicable desire to get Grantaire-cuddles and watch at least fifty of your best cat videos. :) 

Jehan: If that’s okay with you? 

Grantaire: I guess I probably should get out of bed at some point. :P 

Jehan: :D 

 

Grantaire was genuinely taken by surprise when he was tackled to the ground two seconds before midnight struck and kissed enthusiastically on the mouth by Courfeyrac, and then on the cheeks by Bahorel and Marius, who’d both knelt down on the floor to get to him. He couldn’t help laughing as they helped him up, and he hugged Jehan tight when he came over to kiss him too, firmly on the forehead. 

“Happy New Year,” Jehan said into his ear, and Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut and wondered if it was normal to feel like he was full of bubbles when he’d only had a couple of glasses of champagne (admittedly on top of a _lot_ of wine). 

Across the room, Enjolras threw back his head and laughed as Combeferre was pinned down by Joly and Bossuet so Musichetta could kiss the tip of his nose, and for the first time in a long time, Grantaire didn’t immediately feel a stab of guilt after the usual swooping sensation in his stomach. 

 

“What’s he doing here?” Grantaire hissed, leaning close to Joly so no one else would hear. 

Joly looked at him in surprise. “You know him?” 

“His name’s Henri. When did he show up?” 

“About twenty minutes ago. Why are you late, by the way?” 

“Boxing with Bahorel, best two out of three.” 

“Oh, who won?” 

“I did.” Grantaire allowed himself a victory smirk before returning to the matter at hand. “What’s he _doing_ here?” It had nearly stopped his heart, walking in to see Henri sitting at the edge of the Corinthe’s upper room, listening to Combeferre discussing something or other with Courfeyrac while the others chipped in here and there with their own thoughts. 

Joly shrugged. “No idea. He’s being quite annoying, actually.” 

Grantaire glanced at Henri, internal warning lights glaring. “How?” 

“He hasn’t contributed anything,” Joly frowned. “And he’s – there, look, see?” They watched as Henri snorted at something Courfeyrac said and shook his head in disdain. “He’s just been doing that the whole time he’s been here. Combeferre asked him whether he wanted to say anything a few minutes ago, but he refused.” 

Grantaire swallowed. “Isn’t that basically what I do? Except without the silence thing, obviously.” His tendency to ramble if given opportunity was somewhat legendary by now. 

“Yeah, but you’re not annoying about it,” Joly looked down at him and smiled. “You’re funny, and nothing you say is ever malicious.” 

“He hasn’t said anything at all. Surely that’s better?” 

“He’s being a dick,” Joly said unapologetically. “We _know_ you.” 

Grantaire couldn’t help laughing. “Wow, how exclusive of you.” 

Joly smiled, wrinkling his nose. “That did sound a bit bad, didn’t it?” 

“A bit, yeah.” They both looked back over at Henri, who was leaning his chair back on two legs and rolling his eyes at the discussion he was listening to. Grantaire sneaked a look at Enjolras and saw him frown slightly as Henri tsked at something Feuilly said. From Enjolras, a frown like that was the equivalent of a snarl (it hadn’t escaped Grantaire’s notice that he was the only one Enjolras ever lost his temper with – Enjolras usually made a point to avoid loud arguments with anyone in official meetings, especially people he disagreed with. He said it undermined whatever point he was trying to make). 

“Maybe you’d better…” Joly muttered. 

“Yeah,” Grantaire agreed, going over and tapping Henri’s shoulder. “Hey.” 

Henri looked up at him and smiled, not entirely pleasantly. “I wondered if you’d ever show up.” 

“I’m late. Smoke break?” 

Henri smirked, obviously recognising the ploy, but he stood up anyway. “Sure, why not?” 

“What’re you _doing_ here?” Grantaire whispered as they walked past the others. 

“Thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.” Henri glanced back at the table, and at Enjolras. Grantaire saw Enjolras frown again, and hastily beckoned Henri out. “I wanted to see him up close again.” 

Grantaire swallowed and led him downstairs. “Well, you’ve seen him now.” 

Henri snorted. “Defensive much? Got a light?” 

“Yeah.” Grantaire dug in his pocket and handed Henri his lighter as they stepped out into the cold. “Henri, what do you want?” 

Henri lit up and inhaled before giving the lighter back and blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “To see how you are. How’ve you been?” 

Grantaire shoved his hands in his pockets and wished he’d brought a scarf. “Shit,” he muttered. “Bit better recently, but…” 

“Aren’t you going to ask about Alex?” Henri asked lightly. “Though actually, it doesn’t matter, does it? Since you’re not part of his life anymore.” 

Grantaire sighed. “Henri…look, I know it doesn’t sound like anything, but I’m sorry. About all of it, and I know how it sounds, but I honestly didn’t realise –” 

“How could you not realise?” Henri hissed. “I saw the guy for five minutes and I saw it immediately, for Christ’s sakes! No one’s that blind.” 

Grantaire looked down. “Turns out I am.” 

Henri huffed and looked away. “I meant to come earlier, actually, but you know how it is. Things pile up, and suddenly it’s Christmas and it just gets worse after that. Still.” He took another drag and nodded to the Corinthe. “At least you landed on your feet. Made a move on your man yet?” 

“Fuck off,” Grantaire snapped, and regretted it instantly when Henri smirked. 

“Aw, didn’t you get your happily-ever-after?” 

“Fuck off,” Grantaire said again, quieter. “You think I don’t know how much I fucked up? I know how shit I am, alright? You don’t need to remind me.” 

Henri sighed and glanced at the road before offering Grantaire his cigarette. Grantaire took it and inhaled gratefully. “At least you know you’ve been a complete prick,” Henri said flatly. “I still can’t believe you didn’t realise until I pointed it out though.” 

Grantaire laughed bitterly. “Never underestimate a person’s ability to lie to themselves.” 

Henri snorted and took the cigarette back. “Grade-A prick.” 

“I _know_ ,” Grantaire snarled. “I told you; you don’t need to remind me, I’m fully aware of what an asshole I am.” 

“Good,” Henri snapped right back. “I’m glad you feel like shit – you fucking should after what you did. Did you even think about what it does to someone to be told they were just a replacement for somebody else?” 

“We wouldn’t have worked out anyway!” Grantaire cried. 

“And why’s that?” Henri challenged. 

“Because he doesn’t _care_ about anything! Neither of you do!” 

“What, not like little mister activist in there?” Henri laughed derisively. “What makes him so special? What’s he got that Alex hasn’t?” 

“Oi!” 

They both looked up and Grantaire realised with horror that the upstairs window had been open the whole time. His stomach turned to lead as he saw the edge of a blonde head whisk out of sight. Bossuet leaned out of the window and raised his eyebrows at them. “Far be it for me to dictate volume levels to anyone,” he said, “but is there a problem?” 

Grantaire went over the conversation frantically in his head as he assured Bossuet that they were fine. He didn’t think either of them had mentioned Enjolras by name. They hadn’t even mentioned any physical similarities. Maybe he was safe. 

Henri sighed heavily, scowling at the road. “Doesn’t care about anything,” he muttered. “He cares about plenty. He cared about you.” 

“But not…” Grantaire trailed off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I mean, neither of you really care much about what goes on beyond your lives.” 

“What, and you do?” Henri raised his eyebrows and jerked his chin at the Corinthe. “Like that lot in there? They sounded to me like a bunch of green little boys.” 

Grantaire couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, they can give that impression if you’re not used to them.” 

Henri frowned. “Why the hell do you hang out with them? You don’t go in for any of that shit, do you?” 

Grantaire shrugged uncomfortably and took the offered cigarette when Henri held it out. “They’re my friends,” he said, after inhaling and giving it back. “I know they sound kind of…” 

“Pompous? Arrogant?” 

“Naïve,” Grantaire conceded. “At first, anyway, and they don’t sound like they’re serious sometimes, but…they are. All of them, they totally are. And it’s not like they agree on everything or have no problems, and sometimes they make you want to cringe, but they’re all…kind of wonderful. I guess I admire them.” 

“Why?” 

“People want what they can’t have?” Grantaire shrugged. “They charm me, I suppose. You don’t think people like that exist in real life. You hear about things like demonstrations and rallies and stuff but you never think about the people who organise them. I get to see behind the scenes, and…I honestly don’t know why they let me stick around.” He laughed shortly. “God knows I don’t contribute anything of worth.” 

Henri shook his head and dropped the stub of his cigarette to the pavement. “You’re smarter.” 

“I’m really not.” It was exhausting, being the sole cynic in a room full of believers. Scepticism wasn’t a mark of intelligence among his friends – it was just a mark of laziness. Believing required effort, and more importantly, risk. But without risking anything, he gained nothing. He lost nothing either, true, but lately he’d been wondering (with no small amount of shame) whether he was better off than the others because of his opposing views. It certainly didn’t seem like it. 

Henri rubbed his hands together and gazed at Grantaire with his hooded eyes. “Seriously, R. What’s so great about him?” They both knew who he meant. 

“Did you hear him speak?” 

“A bit.” 

“What did you think?” 

“I thought he sounded like an entitled prick. I guess there’s no accounting for taste.” 

Grantaire laughed. “Yeah – I mean, you like women. Weirdo.” 

Henri smiled reluctantly and swatted Grantaire’s shoulder. He’d done it a hundred times before, but it felt strange after so long, and it was clear that Henri felt the same way. “I won’t see you around,” he said quietly. 

Grantaire nodded, oddly sad. “I really am sorry.” 

“Yeah.” Henri looked away and sighed. “Later, R.” 

“Bye.” 

Grantaire watched Henri leave, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket and his shoulders hunched against the cold as he jogged across the road and disappeared around the corner. His phone buzzed in his pocket a second later, and he smiled fondly at the message that popped up. 

Courfeyrac: This is your opportunity to escape if you want to. Say we desperately require your opinion on something important. Xx 

Grantaire went back inside and sat next to Courfeyrac, who grinned. “It worked then?” 

“It would’ve done, if he hadn’t left about five seconds before you sent it,” Grantaire told him. 

Courfeyrac sighed. “Ah well. My intentions were good.” 

“Be careful,” Musichetta smirked. “You know what they say about the road to hell.” 

“That it’s paved with frozen door-to-door salesmen?” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. She rolled her eyes. 

“I’m surrounded by idiots.” 

On his way out a couple of hours later, Enjolras called his name before he was quite out of the door. Jehan paused, but Grantaire waved him on and went over to Enjolras’ table by the window, where he, Combeferre, and Azelma were clearing up the last of their things. “Yes?” He desperately hoped that Enjolras hadn’t put the pieces together from his and Henri’s talk outside. 

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asked quietly. Combeferre and Azelma did an excellent job of pretending they were deaf, but Grantaire still frowned, glad he’d shared that extra bottle with Musichetta – he could always brace himself for Enjolras better with a bit of wine inside him. 

“I’m fine,” he said, leaning on the back of a chair. “Why, are you?” 

“Earlier, that person who came by…nothing’s the matter, is it?” 

Grantaire stared at him, hiding his relief – Enjolras didn’t know. Nothing had changed. “I’m fine, Enjolras. He was just a friend, that’s all.” 

Enjolras frowned. “It sounded like you were arguing.” 

Grantaire smiled crookedly. “I argue with everyone. Don’t worry about me, monsieur; I can take care of myself. Later, guys,” he added, and Combeferre and Azelma both said their goodbyes. 

“What did Enjolras want?” Jehan asked downstairs, winding a sunshine-yellow scarf around his neck. 

“He asked if I was alright,” Grantaire told him, bemused. “Because I was arguing with Henri. Did everyone hear that?” 

“I didn’t,” Jehan shrugged. “But I wasn’t anywhere near the window. Bossuet went on ahead – apparently Vapatza has a deal on tonight for shots. Interested?” 

Grantaire laughed. “Lead on, my Lord Oberon.” 

“Does that make you Puck?” Jehan teased. 

“I am that merry wanderer of the night,” Grantaire declared loudly. Jehan looked behind them and waved. 

“Goodnight, Enjolras!” 

Grantaire looked too, and saw Enjolras standing at the Corinthe’s upstairs window, a hand lifted to return the gesture. Grantaire saluted, and for a dizzy second thought he saw Enjolras smile before he turned away. 

 

“…to improve their lives, wherever possible!” 

Grantaire laughed and banged his hand on the table, getting Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s attention. Enjolras, Azelma, and Marius turned as well, startled by the sound. Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked at him, expressions resigned, and he took a quick swig of his cider before fixing his gaze on them with another mocking laugh. “Life! To what point and purpose would you attempt to improve on such a wretched condition? Surely it’s better to get it over with as quickly as possible, like an unpleasant visit to the doctor? Life, life, what is it good for? We are born above an open grave – the light gleams an instant, and then it’s night once more! What is the point? People wander about with their hands over their eyes, denying everything they perceive if it’s not to their liking, and convince themselves they cleverly walk a tightrope while they stumble and trip on their way to the inevitable cliff face. 

“Goldman said it best – life is pain! And anyone who says differently is selling something. I wonder whether we glorify life beyond its paltry worth, if it possesses any worth at all. The animation of a body that is weak and frail in the face of adversity, saddled with a mind that twists and turns its poor owner about in a labyrinth of never-ending circles and spirals. We are isolated specks of agony, bumping into each other and seeking meaning in a meaningless world. Those outside the order manipulate those within, and still we all fall off the cliff in the end. What’s the point of it at all? Perhaps the committers of suicide have the right idea after all. Why linger in a world that mocks your efforts and shows you in countless ways every moment you are awake how useless everything is? Ah, life’s an exercise in futility. You break your neck living. I need another drink – I need to forget my place in this world.” 

He sighed explosively and leaned back in his chair, draining the last drops in his bottle before standing up unsteadily and laughing again at Combeferre’s unamused expression. “If perchance I have offended, think but this, and all is mended,” he said in badly accented English. “We’d as well be five minutes back in time for all the chance you’ll change your mind.” Switching back to French – “Combeferre, look not so dour! Come now, I’m waiting for your rebuttal, in ten words or less. You’re so good at those little remarks that cut through an argument build up over many minutes…hours, days, years even. I spout my nihilistic vulgarities and yet you are silent!” He laughed and would have put an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders if there hadn’t been a table between them. “Play your part, man! Life’s a theatre, is it not? Play your part as I play mine – I’ve set myself up, now it’s your job to cut me down with your razor-sharp tongue.” 

Combeferre nodded slowly and looked down for a moment. When he lifted his eyes again, they were sharp and clear. “And if I don’t?” 

Grantaire held up a hand and looked around. Spying Bossuet’s beer bottle nearby, he leaned over and grabbed it, then lifted it to Combeferre in a toast. “Then you have proved my point,” he declared. “I played my part and have not even had the satisfaction of the usual closure. You refuse to raise yourself by shutting down my mockeries and so I am left stumbling in the dark once again, a foolish drunk with no purpose. Such is life. Such is the condition I must drink to forget.” So saying, he tipped the bottle back and drained the contents, slamming the empty bottle down on the table when he was done. “Bahorel!” 

“What?” 

Grantaire held on tightly to the back of the chair. “Drink with me.” 

Behind Combeferre, Courfeyrac frowned, and Grantaire closed his eyes before turning away. He had no desire to see a downcast expression unless it was in the mirror. Bahorel appeared next to him and Grantaire pulled on a poor excuse for a smile. “I’ll buy you any drink you want, as long as it’s green,” he said. 

Bahorel snorted. “In the mood for absinthe, are you?” 

“I am in the mood for a leave of ab _sence_ , and ab _sinthe_ will meet my needs. Absence…my senses are stretched thin as wire, and it pains me. Drink with me, Bahorel. Play your part, since the ungracious Combeferre refuses to play his and leaves me bereft; a wandering fool in the wasteland.” 

Bahorel sighed, and Grantaire saw that he didn’t want to drink but would anyway just to keep an eye on him. The realisation was unpleasant, and he patted Bahorel’s shoulder unsteadily. “How swiftly a mind changes, faced with reluctance.” 

“R –” 

“Forget it,” Grantaire assured him, lowering himself slowly into his chair. “I’ll do without.” It would be a simple matter of waiting until Bahorel was otherwise occupied, and then sneaking downstairs to get a couple of shots on his own. He could exercise a little patience. 

His patience went unrewarded. Enjolras, of all people, came to sit between him and the door and started talking to Courfeyrac about the stigma against mental illness, and every time Grantaire made a move to leave, Enjolras looked at him until he settled again, strangely self-conscious and uncomfortably aware of how drunk he was. 

After resigning himself to staying still, however, he began to relax and doze a little, observing his friends as if from a great distance and smiling at the scenes acted out in front of him. He was made more cheerful when he realised that he was able to watch Enjolras as he always used to and no memories of his time with Alex came to mind unless he consciously called them. Perhaps there _was_ something in the idea of time healing wounds, or at least scabbing them over. 

“What’re you grinning at?” Courfeyrac asked as he got up to leave – Feuilly, Marius, and Joly had left hours ago, various early shifts demanding a decent night’s sleep, and the point had been reached where the rest of them began to pack up as well. 

Grantaire smiled. “The dancers’ lives may be brief, but they cut splendid figures while they remain on the floor.” 

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and jerked his head at the door. “Come on. Let’s not forget you’re the best dancer of the lot.” 

Grantaire laughed. “Leave the lies to the lawyers, Courfeyrac. You dance circles around me, every one of you. Puddles of eloquence and passionate speeches litter the floor and I just slip up on them while you float above.” 

“Like angels?” Courfeyrac smirked. 

Grantaire couldn’t help glancing at Enjolras. “Some more angelic than others.” He looked up at Courfeyrac and pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s go then. Depart this heavenly cloud for something better suited to my mortal clay.” 

He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and followed Courfeyrac to the door. For no particular reason, he looked over his shoulder before he left, and caught Enjolras’ eye. For a second he thought Enjolras was going to speak, but then he just looked away, curling his fingers against the table top. 

“R? You coming?” 

Grantaire turned away and regretted the lack of absinthe in his system when he didn’t have to concentrate to get down the stairs in one piece – if that was the case, he knew he was too sober. 

 

Joly: Are you going out tonight? 

Grantaire: Miiiiiiiiight beeeeee. Shouldnt you be asleep? Thought you hadan early class? 

Joly: Which unfortunately requires preparation in the form of reading a few papers. If you’re going out, make sure you don’t forget your coat! And your gloves and scarf! 

Grantaire: YOURE NOT MY MOTHER! 

Grantaire: Cant beleivve you texted me AND courfeyrca. Go to sleep!!!! 

Joly: Now who’s being the mother? ;) Stay safe. X 

Grantaire: Stay sagacious. 

Joly: How come you can’t spell believe or Courfeyrac’s name, but you can spell sagacious? 

Grantaire: Im fucking magical. 

Joly: That you are. Goodnight! 

Grantaire: Stay gold, jollllyboy. 

 

“Do you think Enjolras has been a bit strange lately?” Musichetta asked. 

Grantaire had been just about to walk around the corner into the living room (movie nights were usually held at Courfeyrac and Marius’, but they were always better at Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet’s – they had the biggest sofa), but he paused and stayed where he was, hidden from view. 

“Strange how?” Éponine asked. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific.” 

“I don’t know. Just a feeling I’m getting. It’s like he’s nervous about something.” 

“Well let’s ask the experts,” Bahorel laughed. “Combeferre? Courfeyrac?” 

Combeferre cleared his throat. “No comment.” 

There was a moment of silence. Then Bossuet spoke, hushed. “Holy shit. Is something wrong with him?” 

“He’s fine,” Courfeyrac sighed. “Honestly, you’re like old women gossiping over your garden fences.” 

“Don’t say anything behind someone’s back you wouldn’t want to say to their face,” Combeferre said wisely. “Can we put the movie on?” 

“We need Grantaire first,” Éponine said. “Oi! R! Where are you?” 

Grantaire took a moment to gather himself before walking in, grinning. “Keep your voice down, I’m here.” 

“Good.” Combeferre smiled, and there was a touch of iron in it. “Let’s watch.” 

Afterwards, Grantaire contrived to walk alongside Courfeyrac as they walked to the bus stop. “So.” 

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “So?” 

“What’s Enjolras got to be nervous about then?” Courfeyrac looked forward sharply, and Grantaire stared at him, shocked by the strength of his reaction. “Christ, what is it?” 

“I can’t – fuck.” He closed his eyes for a second. “Should’ve said no comment.” 

“You can’t tell me?” Grantaire guessed. “Is it bad? Is he okay?” 

“He’s fine.” Courfeyrac didn’t look at him. “Fit as a fiddle.” 

“So why’s he nervous? What’s he nervous about?” 

Courfeyrac sighed. “Nothing.” 

“That is such bullshit.” 

“Well take a good sniff, because it’s all I’m saying.” 

Grantaire huffed. “You suck.” 

“Blow and swallow, I know.” Courfeyrac shot him a smile. “If it helps, I don’t really know what’s going on with him at the moment. I’ve got my suspicions – my _private_ suspicions, which I’m not sharing with anyone – but I’m pretty sure Combeferre knows more than I do. Which probably still isn’t much. Enjolras is worse than Éponine when he’s got something bugging him.” 

Grantaire frowned, and Courfeyrac bumped his shoulder companiably. “It’s nothing bad, is it? He’s not in any sort of trouble?” 

Courfeyrac laughed. At Grantaire’s confused look, he explained. “You sound like he did when you abandoned us. And look, I told you, he’s fine. Forget about it.” 

“Oh, likely,” Grantaire snorted. “Ask me next to fly. Or perhaps to scale the Eiffel Tower using only my teeth.” 

Courfeyrac patted his shoulder. “Fly to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and leave your memory there.” 

“If only I could. I’d come down remade. You wouldn’t know me.” 

“Well in that case, I’ll tie you to the ground so you can’t. I’d rather have you than a new, blank person with your face.” 

“What happens if I have an accident and lose my memory?” 

“Then it’ll be exactly what you said – an accident. A _tragic_ accident. And we’d all help you remember.” Courfeyrac put an arm around his shoulders and grinned. “Leave the Eiffel Tower to the tourists and stay on the ground with us.” 

“How fickle you are.” 

“I never claimed otherwise.” 

 

Grantaire was almost expecting it when Enjolras brushed close by on their way out of the Corinthe’s upper room and muttered, “Can I talk to you for a second?” He’d been catching Enjolras looking at him all night, and it was actually a relief to have it addressed. 

“Of course,” he nodded. “Here?” 

“Um. Madame Hucheloup’s closing up in a minute, so…” 

“Outside then?” 

“If you don’t mind.” 

“My body’s borne worse cold than this. I’m sure it can handle a February night with good grace – it’s managed to charge through the preceding years well enough. To a point, anyway.” He smiled nervously, and Enjolras nodded, avoiding his eyes. A thought flew suddenly into Grantaire’s mind – had Enjolras found out about Alex? And by extension, Grantaire’s humiliating attraction to him? 

He should be adequately prepared for this. It was like he’d been preparing for this for ages – he’d forced Enjolras to reject him a thousand times before in a hundred tiny ways – Enjolras telling him to be quiet, to sit down, to stop spouting rubbish and disrupting the meetings. Closing his eyes impatiently, clenching his fists, making pointed comments about not letting the booze go to anyone’s head. And when Grantaire continued to needle him, to bait him (how else to gain his attention when it was clear he couldn’t say anything worthy of Enjolras’ invested responses), Enjolras would finally lose his temper and tell him to get out if he didn’t have anything useful to contribute. 

They hadn’t actually had many arguments of true consequence. Usually Grantaire was content with the little sparks of irritation Enjolras threw his way and only occasionally provoked the full glare of Enjolras’ fury, and while it was painful, it was also glorious to be the sole subject of Enjolras’ attention, even if it was negative. It was worth it. But most of the time, he settled when Enjolras demanded it of him. 

He hadn’t felt the need to incite Enjolras’ annoyance recently, he realised as they walked downstairs behind the others, both of them slowing their pace to put a little distance between them and the rest of the group. Why? 

Enjolras shot a quick look at him as they walked out of the front door, and Grantaire swallowed, looking down and pulling his gloves out of his pocket. 

 _That_ was why. He’d still been getting sparks – just not openly negative ones. He hadn’t even noticed. 

The others had already hurried off, leaving Grantaire alone with Enjolras. He looked over at him and gestured half-heartedly to the right, in the direction of the bus stop. “So, you wanted to talk to me?” he said as they began to walk, incredibly slowly. 

“Yes, I just…” Enjolras frowned at the pavement. “You didn’t say much tonight,” he said after a moment. 

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t like Enjolras to dance around a subject, but if he knew how Grantaire felt about him, he might be feeling awkward. As usual, Grantaire’s mouth ran ahead of his brain. “You’re complaining because I _didn’t_ talk a lot?” 

Enjolras frowned at him. “I don’t complain about you talking.” 

Grantaire stared at him. “Yes you do. You hate it when I speak.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“Yes it is.” This wasn’t going the way he’d expected, and he wasn’t sure yet whether that was a good thing or not. “You hate it when I derail the conversation with my shit.” 

“It’s not shit,” Enjolras argued, and Grantaire’s eyebrows rose higher. 

“Come again? Can I get that in writing? Are you _feeling_ alright?” 

Enjolras scowled. “I’m fine.” 

“Really? Because it sounds like you’ve bumped your head.” 

“I can’t tell you I don’t hate it when you talk?” 

“No, because that’s just not true,” Grantaire protested. “You tell me to shut up or get out when I go off on one of my inane rambles. Are you sure you’re Enjolras? The Enjolras I know wouldn’t change his opinion overnight like this.” 

“It wasn’t overnight,” Enjolras said sharply. “And people can change, you know.” 

Grantaire was torn between relief and bewilderment. It didn’t sound like Enjolras knew about Alex, or Grantaire’s feelings for him, so he wasn’t about to be forced to flee the city in shame, but he had absolutely no idea where the hell Enjolras was going with this. “No they can’t,” he said, stating the obvious. “People don’t change. Not really.” 

Enjolras stared at him as if he’d claimed the sky was orange. “Yes they do.” 

“No, they don’t,” Grantaire told him slowly. “Not fundamentally. That’s why when a villain has a change of heart at the end of a story, it’s always a bit unbelievable. Not that I’m saying you’re a villain, but the point stands.” 

“Of course people change,” Enjolras huffed. “Everyone changes – it’s inevitable. It’s virtually the only constant you can rely on.” 

“Which is contradictory, when you think about it,” Grantaire interjected. 

“But _my_ point stands – people can change, and they do.” 

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” 

Enjolras laughed disbelievingly. “Of course I do. If I didn’t believe people could change, why would I spend all my time trying to convince them?” 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Let’s not get into this.” 

“What?” 

“Your adorable misguided belief that people genuinely have the innate desire to change for the better.” 

“But most people do! People can change, you know they can!” 

They were walking faster as their voices got louder, and Grantaire knew this dance so well he could have done it blindfolded. “Some people can’t,” he retorted. He could meet Enjolras’ eyes when they were arguing, on familiar ground, and he practically bounced on his feet, thrilled to have Enjolras’ full attention without even the possibility of someone else distracting him. “Some people are just fundamentally shit, and they’re not worth your time.” They reached the empty bus stop and Enjolras frowned at him. 

“Grantaire…” 

Grantaire leaned against a lamppost. “What?” 

“Grantaire, you’re worth my time. You know that, don’t you?” 

Enjolras was looking at him with something akin to concern in his expression, and Grantaire couldn’t help the self-deprecating smile that slipped out. “Enjolras, I’m not worth the dirt on your shoes.” 

Enjolras frowned at him. “That’s bullshit! Why would say that?” 

Grantaire laughed – this was just too surreal. “Because it’s the truth.” 

“No it’s not!” Enjolras protested. “How can you even think that?” 

“God, where to begin?” Grantaire shook his head at Enjolras’ incredulous expression. “Enjolras, I’m not a good person. I’m barely a decent person. If you knew about the things I’ve done –” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Enjolras interrupted. “It doesn’t _matter_ what you’ve done or what you think you’ve done. Of course you’re a good person.” 

Grantaire resisted the urge to call him a sweet child of summer. “You’re really so sure? Because I don’t think you’re the one who gets to decide these things.” 

“Of course I’m sure,” Enjolras scowled. “You’re brilliant.” 

Grantaire’s brain stuttered. “…what?” 

Enjolras sighed. “I told you, I…look, I wanted…” He trailed off and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. No scarf or gloves, Grantaire noticed. Joly would have a fit if he knew. “Forget it,” he muttered suddenly, closing his eyes and grimacing. “It’s stupid.” 

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “What?” 

“Forget it.” 

“Come on, you wanted to talk to me for a reason, didn’t you? Unless you actually wanted to argue here rather than inside because you’ve decided to get it out of the way for next time.” He smiled, hiding his uncertainty because Enjolras was _definitely_ acting strangely. “Maybe you’ve come to the conclusion that my input is too distracting when we’re all together, so you’re trying to get it out of my system ahead of schedule.” 

“That’s not what I –” Enjolras sighed, evidently conflicted, and then seemed to force himself to meet Grantaire’s eyes. “You know I like you, don’t you?” 

Grantaire opened his mouth, but couldn’t speak for a second. “I…know you tolerate me.” 

“No, I _like_ you, I really…fuck.” Enjolras scrubbed his hands over his face and turned to face the road. “Never mind.” 

“But –” 

“You obviously…look, can we just forget this ever happened?” 

Grantaire fought the urge to flail his arms. “Enjolras, forget _what?_ What the hell are you trying to say?” 

Enjolras wouldn’t look at him. “You clearly don’t feel the same way, so it doesn’t matter.” 

“Feel _what?_ ” Grantaire was finding it a little difficult to breathe properly. 

“You know what,” Enjolras snapped. “You…” He pushed a hand through his hair and sighed. “I like you, Grantaire. You’re…you’re amazing.” 

“You must have me mixed up with someone else,” Grantaire said faintly, and pressed himself back into the lamppost as Enjolras rounded on him, coming closer, too close. 

“Why do you do that?” 

“What?” 

“Put yourself down all the time? How is it that you can see virtually everything else – every flaw and every virtue – and not see your own worth?” 

Grantaire swallowed and tried to fall back on familiar ground, way out of his depth with Enjolras less than half a foot away. “Ah, you know what they say – a true cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing, and we all know I’m nothing but a poor, vulgar cynic. Go find our friends – they deserve your praises far more than I do.” 

“You’re impossible!” 

Grantaire smiled and looked away. “I’ve actually been told that before, by a girl called…Irma, I think? I could be wrong –” A hand on his face cut him off, tilting his head up, and suddenly Enjolras was _kissing_ him, pressing their lips together clumsily. Grantaire stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, fingers digging into the lamppost behind him. Enjolras pulled away after only a second, but kept his hand on Grantaire’s face, bare fingers ice cold on Grantaire’s jaw and cheek. 

“I don’t know how else to say it,” he said, looking about as nervous as Grantaire was shocked. His fingers shifted as if to move away and Grantaire’s hand flew up and grabbed his wrist instinctively, holding it in place even as he gaped in silence like some sort of fish. 

“What are you doing?” he managed to say, and even though most of his brain was currently full of white noise, there was still a tiny part that was embarrassed at how cracked his voice sounded. 

Enjolras winced. “If that didn’t make it clear I don’t think anything else will.” His fingers moved against Grantaire’s skin, thumb just brushing his eyelashes, and Grantaire realised suddenly that he was squeezing Enjolras’ wrist so hard his own hand was trembling. He let go with a start and Enjolras pulled his arm back, other hand cradling the wrist Grantaire had held. 

“I don’t understand,” Grantaire whispered. 

Enjolras stared down at his hands. “Which part? The bit where I told you, or the bit where I showed you?” 

Grantaire couldn’t get his thoughts straight enough to risk speaking, and he stepped away from the lamppost and back a bit, trying to put enough space between them to breathe. Enjolras looked up as he stepped backwards and a line appeared between his eyebrows. “Grantaire?” Grantaire could only stare at him, and Enjolras closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I told you it didn’t matter. I shouldn’t have…well. I’m sorry. You don’t…you don’t like me like that, and –” 

“But I do,” Grantaire blurted, and his breath actually caught in his throat when Enjolras’ eyes snapped to his. 

“You _do?_ ” 

“I mean…” Grantaire gestured helplessly. “I mean, I…this isn’t…look, this isn’t some sort of dare, is it? Or a joke?” 

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “You think I’d do something like that?” 

“No, but you know how persuasive Courfeyrac can be,” Grantaire babbled, “and I know Cosette isn’t above blackmail, so I just thought I’d ask because I’m still trying to understand what exactly is going on?” 

“What’s to understand?” Enjolras shook his head, cheeks flushed either from the cold or self-consciousness. 

Grantaire curled and uncurled the hand that had held Enjolras’ wrist and stared at him. “You…really like me?” To the point of _kissing him_ – if Grantaire hadn’t been so confused he would have been _screaming_. 

Enjolras shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looked down. “Obviously. And you…” He glanced at Grantaire. “You like me?” 

“Well _yeah_ ,” Grantaire huffed. “Of _course_ I do, I just…” 

“What?” 

“Well, why me? I mean…” He waved a hand inarticulately and said lamely. “Why would you like _me?_ ” 

Enjolras laughed incredulously. “What, you want me to give you a list?” 

“It’d be kind of helpful, yeah!” 

Enjolras laughed again. “Because…you’re _you_ , I mean…look, it’s harder than you think to give a list like that on the spot.” 

Grantaire shook his head. “ _Me_ is a screw-up, Enjolras. I’m a borderline alcoholic, occasionally severely depressed drop-out. There’s nothing good about me." 

“You really think that?” Enjolras’ smile faded. When Grantaire didn’t answer, he sighed. “So you’re going to ignore the fact that you’re well on your way to becoming a professional tattoo artist? And that your memory seems to be practically eidetic? You can argue with any of us for hours on end and beat us even when you’ve downed God knows how many glasses of wine. You come up with this incredible stuff just off the top of your head – speeches it would take me days to work out, and you just open your mouth and it flows perfectly! You’re so talented, and funny, and kind, and you’re just _good_ , Grantaire, you’re such an essentially good person – I can’t understand why you insist humankind is evil when you’re so great.” 

Grantaire was distantly aware that his mouth was open, and he was about to try and form a reply when headlights appeared on the deserted road. “The bus is here,” he mumbled instead. Enjolras stuck his hand out for it, and Grantaire fumbled with his wallet to avoid Enjolras’ eyes, hoping desperately that he wasn’t blushing. His stomach was in knots and it felt like his lungs had expanded to about three times their usual size, and he couldn’t help repeating to himself the things Enjolras had just said. 

“I’m not good,” he said finally as they sat down near the back. There were only a couple of other people on the bus, both of them wearing headphones. “I’m not saying I’m not…” Flattered was the wrong word, but nothing else came to mind. “Um.” 

“You are one of the smartest people I know,” Enjolras said seriously. “And definitely the most creative.” 

“Well that’s clearly not true,” Grantaire tried to smile. “You know Combeferre. And Feuilly and Jehan.” 

“I said _one_ of the smartest people I know,” Enjolras said dryly. “Which, since I do know Combeferre…” He raised his eyebrows significantly and Grantaire smiled at his knees. 

“Yeah, okay, point taken.” 

“And I’m not denying that Feuilly and Jehan are creative, but from what I’ve seen you have more versatility. I don’t know anyone else who speaks like you do when you have one of your fits of eloquence. And from what I’ve seen of your art…and I’ve seen your doodles –” 

“You can’t count those!” Grantaire protested. “They’re just scraps!” 

Enjolras laughed. “They’re masterpieces compared to anything I could produce. I can barely draw stick men.” 

Grantaire frowned at him uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at here.” 

“We’re drawn to what we lack, I suppose.” 

Grantaire glanced sideways at him, and saw that Enjolras was frowning down at his hands, curled together in his lap. Grantaire hesitated, then asked, “Did you really kiss me?” 

Enjolras smiled and looked at him almost shyly. “I’d like to do it again, if you don’t mind.” 

Grantaire laughed dizzily. “What, here?” Enjolras looked around and shrugged, practically smirking. Grantaire laughed again, passing a hand over his face. “ _Not_ on the bus.” 

“At yours then?” Enjolras asked quietly. 

Butterflies erupted in Grantaire’s stomach as he nodded. “Sure. Yeah…okay.” 

“You don’t have to,” Enjolras added quickly, but Grantaire shook his head. 

“No, I…besides, you look like you might freeze to death soon. Aren’t you cold?” 

“Only my hands.” He smiled ruefully. “I left my gloves at home.” 

“Your scarf too?” 

“I was in a hurry when I left.” 

“You want to borrow mine?” Grantaire offered. Enjolras shook his head. 

“They’d only be keeping the cold in at this point.” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works.” 

“That’s how my hands work,” Enjolras shrugged. “I have bad circulation. They get cold and they stay cold.” 

Grantaire brought up every shred of daring he possessed and pulled off his gloves, holding out a hand. “They can’t be that bad.” 

Enjolras grinned and shifted slightly to face him better as he pressed his right hand against Grantaire’s. He laughed when Grantaire hissed. “Told you they were cold. I can’t really feel them at the moment though, so it’s not too bad.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good thing,” Grantaire snorted, folding his hands around the one Enjolras had offered and squeezing tight, trying to force some heat into the skin. “Perhaps my words really do hold power – I’ve called you a marble statue enough times; maybe you’re turning into one.” 

“I hope not. Statues don’t really do much good.” 

“Ah, philistine, tell that to Feuilly and he’ll talk your ear off about the inspirational qualities of sculpture.” 

Enjolras smiled and turned his hand to thread his fingers through Grantaire’s for a moment, gently. Grantaire pressed it still again, and then turned it over, the fingers of one hand loose around Enjolras’ wrist, his other palm-up beneath Enjolras’ fingertips. He so rarely had the chance to study Enjolras’ hands – they were never still. Grantaire had started countless sketches, trying to capture the exact shape of them, but they always changed position or moved out of sight before he could finish. 

Slowly, he slid his fingers between Enjolras’ and back, his breath catching when Enjolras’ thumb stroked the side of his little finger – a deliberate gesture. He bit his lip and turned Enjolras’ hand over to look at his palm, tracing his lifeline with his middle finger, drawing his thumb across the heel of his hand. 

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asked, voice hushed. 

Grantaire couldn’t help smiling, turning Enjolras’ hand to look at it side-on, examining the angle of his thumb and the ridge of his knuckles. His own skin was a little darker, his hand a little larger, though not by as much as he’d expected. Enjolras was bigger up close, seeming to grow wherever Grantaire touched him. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but somehow it was. 

“Your hands are never still long enough for me to get a good look,” he replied quietly. “I’m taking my chance while I can.” 

“While you can?” Enjolras repeated, and Grantaire could hear the frown in his voice. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that I like you?” 

Grantaire held Enjolras’ middle finger between his thumb and forefinger, marvelling at the sensation of Enjolras’ smooth fingernail under his fingertip. “I’m not exactly a catch,” he said absently. 

“But you like me.” 

Grantaire paused, fingers curling away. Then he nodded jerkily and reached out again, turning Enjolras' hand once more to better study his knuckles, where there were a few white scars he’d never had the chance to see before, having never been so close. 

“Why?” 

Grantaire’s head snapped up of its own accord, eyes wide. “What?” 

Enjolras was still frowning, but his mouth twisted at Grantaire’s surprise. “A list would be kind of helpful,” he said dryly, repeating Grantaire’s own words, and Grantaire laughed, startled, and looked back down again, stroking his thumb slowly across Enjolras’ knuckles, over each bump and smoothing into each dip because he was being _allowed_. His fingertips skated against Enjolras’ palm and the undersides of his fingers, out of sight. 

“Because you’re _you_ ,” he said, ducking his head to try and hide his giddy smile. 

Enjolras snorted. “Not so easy, is it?” 

“No, I mean…” Grantaire’s smile faded, and he found Enjolras’ pulse in his wrist with the pad of his ring finger. “You’re…I don’t know how to say it,” he admitted. How to put in words the way Enjolras could bring colour and substance into a room simply by being there. How magnetic he was, how effortlessly fierce. How he made Grantaire want to actually try – to be better, to be _something_ for once in his pathetic life. “You’re magnificent,” he settled on, unable to meet Enjolras’ eyes. “You’re you.” 

Enjolras didn’t reply for a moment, and Grantaire took the opportunity to pull his fingers out straight and slide the tips of his own between Enjolras’ knuckles. Enjolras was the one who moved, pushing his hand down and twining their fingers together. “I thought you hated me,” he said casually, and Grantaire choked, tightening his grip without meaning to as he lifted his head to stare at Enjolras. 

“What?” 

Enjolras smiled crookedly and shrugged one shoulder. “Well what was I supposed to think? You disagreed with everything I said and told us we were wasting our time and treated us like naïve schoolboys, with me the worst of the lot because I was meant to be the one in charge.” 

“You _are_ the one in charge.” 

“We’re a democracy,” Enjolras said sternly. 

Grantaire laughed. “Democracy still needs a leader, and I’m afraid that’s you.” 

“I figured that’s why you hated me the most,” Enjolras said simply. “I don’t have any of the redeeming qualities of the others – I’m not funny like Bossuet or arty like Jehan or Feuilly. I’m better with strangers than people I know.” 

“That’s because you put on an act,” Grantaire told him. “You charm strangers. You don’t need to bother with your friends.” 

“I didn’t think you considered me a friend,” Enjolras admitted. “I’m too quick to anger, too outspoken. You’re more relaxed.” 

“I’m lazy,” Grantaire corrected him. “As I think you’ve told me many times.” 

Enjolras actually winced. “See? Quick to anger. And you always know just how to get under my skin.” 

“How else to get your attention?” 

“If I’d known you wanted it, I would have given it.” 

“Now you tell me,” Grantaire smiled, still holding his hand gently. 

“How long have you wanted it?” Enjolras asked curiously, and Grantaire sucked in a slow breath. 

“A while,” he settled on, cautious. 

Enjolras moved his hand, turning it and threading his fingers through Grantaire’s, holding it properly. “I’m sorry, if I was ever…unkind.” 

Grantaire laughed and leaned sideways on some half-formed instinct, pressing his shoulder against Enjolras’. “Already forgotten,” he said. Something pressed against his head – Enjolras’ face, he realised giddily. The insane reality of the situation kept hitting him in little delayed bursts. “The next stop’s mine, by the way.” 

“Can I come in?” Enjolras sounded uncharacteristically nervous, and Grantaire squeezed his hand. 

“You don’t have to ask. Mi casa, es tu casa.” 

“Oh, you speak Spanish too?” Enjolras teased. 

Grantaire smiled. “Sólo un poco.” The bus ground to a stop and he grabbed the pole and pulled himself up, loosening his hold on Enjolras’ hand but not quite letting go. “This is me.” 

Enjolras tightened his grip and followed, and Grantaire looked forward to hide his disbelieving grin as they made their way to the front of the bus and got out into the cold across the street from a brasserie which was still lit up. “How far away is your place?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire pointed back the way they’d come. 

“Just round the corner.” Grantaire led Enjolras down the road and tried in vain to quell the butterflies in his stomach (his abdomen, lungs, and throat seemed to be similarly affected, as if his whole torso had been hollowed out and filled with tiny fluttering wings). He was suddenly very aware of how shabby his neighbourhood looked, with the faded paint on the walls that weren’t just exposed brick, and the faded graffiti covering that. Posters pasted onto the walls were peeling and torn, and the neon signs of the pharmacy and the florist looked suddenly tacky and cheap. There was litter in the gutters, and as they turned onto his street there was no escaping how beaten-up the parked cars and motorcycles looked. 

Enjolras seemed to stand out here, clean and bright against the grime that was so much a part of Grantaire’s life that he didn’t even notice it. “It’s not much,” he muttered. 

Enjolras smiled at him, and the tightening sensation in Grantaire’s chest eased a little. “Which one’s yours?” 

“Just here.” Past the shitty little phone store and the empty shop that hadn’t been used for anything since Grantaire had moved in except as a tagging space for local street artists. He pushed the door open with his free hand and drew Enjolras into the cramped hall. 

“Shouldn’t that be locked?” 

“Keypad’s broken. Landlord says he’s on it, but he’s been ‘on it’ for about three weeks now. It’s not a big deal.” Enjolras raised his eyebrows but didn’t say any more as Grantaire led him to the stairs, not wanting to say there was no elevator. “I told you it’s not much.” 

Enjolras tugged on his hand and Grantaire turned, two steps above him. It was strange to be looking down at Enjolras – it wasn’t his usual vantage point – but if Enjolras felt it he didn’t give any sign. He moved up one step so they were closer and asked, “Can I kiss you?” 

Grantaire accidentally bit his tongue. Enjolras was waiting for an answer, but he couldn’t actually speak, so he nodded instead. Enjolras’ free hand came up to rest lightly on his waist, barely noticeable through the padding of his jacket, and Grantaire wished fiercely that there were fewer layers separating them. The thought didn’t have time to grow – Enjolras shifted forward and Grantaire ducked his head down, his body oddly heavy, and their noses brushed together just as their lips met. 

What had happened before at the bus stop wasn’t a kiss. It didn’t count, as far as Grantaire was concerned. _This_ was a kiss. The butterflies in his chest melted, molten heat pooling in his stomach as Enjolras pressed up, pressed closer, and opened his mouth, his hand sliding round to the small of Grantaire’s back as Grantaire’s free hand found his shoulder and held on tight, mind utterly blank but for a silent expression of pure happiness. 

Enjolras squeezed his hand and Grantaire sighed through his nose and clamped down _hard_ on the urge to make an undignified noise when Enjolras’ tongue slid against his. He didn’t quite succeed, and he felt Enjolras’ lips curve in a smile, pulling away for a second before coming back with an intensity that left Grantaire light-headed, holding onto Enjolras as much to keep himself upright as to reassure himself that this was really happening. 

“I have an apartment, you know,” he breathed the next time Enjolras pulled away slightly. “It’s only four floors up." 

“Four floors? And you have no elevator?” 

“Could be worse,” Grantaire laughed, head spinning a little. “I could be on the sixth.” 

Enjolras gave him a kiss in lieu of a reply, and Grantaire let go of his hand to pull him closer, finally managing to wrap his head around the fact that he _could;_ that Enjolras was _letting_ him do this. “Seriously,” he laughed breathlessly, the zipper of Enjolras’ jacket pressing into his sternum. “Apartment, four floors up.” 

Enjolras grinned and just kissed him again. “I don’t know the way,” he said lightly between little kisses on Grantaire’s lips that made him ache for more. 

“There’s one staircase,” Grantaire protested, unable to stop smiling. His eyes fluttered closed as Enjolras pressed his lips to his jaw, then his cheek. “Just one staircase,” he repeated weakly, clinging to Enjolras’ jacket. Enjolras kissed a spot just in front of his ear, warm air gusting against Grantaire’s skin, and he shivered. “Fucking _fuck_ , come on.” He pulled himself away and grabbed Enjolras’ hand again, something thrilling inside him when Enjolras laughed and allowed himself to be pulled up the stairs. 

Once they were inside, Grantaire decided. Then he would actually _do_ something instead of just standing there like a plank as Enjolras kissed him. (As Enjolras _kissed_ him, was he even _awake_ right now?) 

At the second floor, Enjolras pulled him back and kissed him again, mercilessly using the extra couple of inches of height he had when they were standing on level ground. Grantaire looped an arm around his shoulders and arched into it, wishing again they weren’t wearing thick winter jackets. “Inside,” he muttered out loud, twisting away and guiding Enjolras to the next flight of stairs. “You’re so impatient.” 

“I have lots of flaws,” Enjolras admitted with a small smile. 

“Flaws from your lips?” Grantaire couldn’t help saying, throwing a grin over his shoulder and running up to the next corner to fall back against the wall and tug Enjolras against him. “Ah, trespass sweetly urged, give me your flaws again.” 

Enjolras laughed and kissed him obligingly, their bodies pressed together from chest to knee. “Are you quoting something?” he asked when he pulled back, pinning Grantaire in place with his weight. Grantaire held him there and took the chance to kiss Enjolras’ neck, still cold from the air outside. 

“He jests at scars who never felt a wound,” Grantaire teased, catching his breath as Enjolras exhaled heavily and pressed closer. “Cold?” 

“A bit.” 

“Still some stairs to go.” 

Enjolras sighed, almost a groan, and Grantaire pressed his nose into the soft skin behind the curve of Enjolras’ jaw before loosening his grip around Enjolras’ waist and sliding away. Enjolras snagged his hand again and followed as Grantaire led him up more stairs, keeping the pace quick so Enjolras wouldn’t have the chance to distract him and slow them down again. 

“My apartment’s a mess,” he warned as they reached his door, free hand digging into his pocket for his keys. 

“I don’t care,” Enjolras said simply. “Is it warm?” 

“I have a space heater,” Grantaire gave him a quick smile and had just slid his key into the lock when the door of the next apartment over opened suddenly, making them both jump, and a tall black woman stepped into the corridor, holding a bag of rubbish. She nodded as she passed them, and Grantaire smiled. “Evening, Sofia.” 

“Good evening, Grantaire,” she smiled back. “And you too, Ale – oh.” She paused and frowned at Enjolras, and Grantaire’s insides went cold. 

“This is Enjolras,” he said quietly. 

Enjolras offered his hand, apparently on instinct. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Do you need some help with that?” 

Sofia laughed, and shook her head as she shook his hand. “No, thank you. Good night.” 

Grantaire nodded and opened the door, hitting the light switch and standing to one side to let Enjolras in before he closed it and put the chain on, lingering with his back to Enjolras for a moment to try and figure out what to say. 

“Grantaire?” 

He took a deep breath and turned around. “Sorry.” 

Enjolras was frowning at him. “Are you okay?” 

There was the potential for a smooth, less awkward answer, but what came out was, “Aren’t you going to ask who Alex is?” And why Sofia had thought Enjolras was him? 

“Does it matter?” Enjolras asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. 

Grantaire opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure. “I don’t know,” he whispered. 

Enjolras cocked his head and pursed his lips. “He’s the guy you met at the picnic.” 

“How did you know that?” 

“I eavesdrop,” Enjolras said unashamedly. “Also, I know you have an ex who dragged you away from us for months last year.” 

“He didn’t drag me,” Grantaire protested automatically, and leaned back against the door with a frown. 

“Fine, you went of your own free will,” Enjolras amended. “Again – does it matter?” 

Grantaire tugged his scarf off and twisted it in his hands to buy a few seconds. “Depends,” he said slowly. “Would you be…” Turned off? Disgusted? “…freaked out if I’d gone out with him mostly because he looked like you?” 

“I don’t care.” Enjolras said, so bluntly that Grantaire looked up in surprise. “Do you still like him?” Grantaire shook his head, and the corner of Enjolras’ lips turned up slightly. “Then it doesn’t matter to me.” 

“Really?” Grantaire stared at him and Enjolras smiled properly, coming closer until he was just inches away. This close, Grantaire could actually see his eyes properly, steel blue ringed with grey, and the blonde in his eyebrows that was invisible from a distance. 

“Really,” he said quietly, and Grantaire couldn’t stop a surprised smile spreading across his face just before Enjolras leaned in and kissed him, one of his hands going to the side of Grantaire’s neck, the other to his back, firm against his spine, and Grantaire moved closer and kissed back, angling his head and sliding his arms around Enjolras’ back, heavy and relieved against his waist. 

“You really want this?” he asked, still a little disbelieving. Was it even normal to dismiss something like that as easily as Enjolras had done? 

Enjolras drew back, one hand holding onto Grantaire’s collar. “Do you?” 

Grantaire laughed. “Is that a serious question? Or is it your new plan to get people’s attention by going into stand-up comedy?” 

“I’m not very good at being funny,” Enjolras said dryly. 

“I disagree,” Grantaire grinned. “Everything you say on the subject of the monarchy makes me crack up.” 

Enjolras scowled, but Grantaire could tell it wasn’t serious – he’d seen plenty of the serious ones, after all. He of all people could tell the difference. “Shut up.” 

He didn’t quite dare say ‘make me’, so he said, “Okay,” instead and kissed Enjolras again. If this could be his new response whenever Enjolras told him to be quiet, he would never speak again. He would take a vow of silence if he could kiss Enjolras every time he got the urge to talk. He wouldn’t make a sound. Not a whisper, not a breath. 

The heat that had fled so quickly at the mention of Alex’s name was flaring up again, Enjolras’ hand on the skin of his neck kindling sparks, his lips igniting flames. He moved to kiss Grantaire’s cheek, and his stubble rasped against Grantaire’s for a moment, making him exhale sharply. The roughness was another reminder that this was real. It was really happening. 

Enjolras shivered suddenly, a full-body shiver, and then laughed in Grantaire’s ear. “You said you had a space heater?” he asked sheepishly. 

Grantaire laughed too as he drew away. “How are you still cold?” 

“I told you – I get cold, I stay cold. Poor circulation. I can’t actually feel my feet right now.” 

“Wow, you suck.” The response was automatic, the sort of thing he’d say to Feuilly or Éponine, never something he would have said to Enjolras before now. “Um. It’s through there,” he nodded to the corridor behind Enjolras, and slipped past to lead him to the end. The doors to his bedroom, the kitchen, and the bathroom were all open, and he laughed awkwardly as he flipped the light on in the living room. “It’s…kind of a mess, sorry.” 

The sofa had a pillow and a couple of blankets on it for whoever decided to sleep over. One of the chairs from the kitchen was being used as a table because the actual table was covered in paper, dirty plates, and art tins. An unused easel leaned against the wall by the window, and the floor was covered in junk. Grantaire started sweeping it a little with one foot to try and clear a path to the sofa, nudging aside an empty pizza box and an overflowing ashtray. 

He chanced a quick look over his shoulder at Enjolras, already wincing in expectation – it was actually worse than usual at the moment – but Enjolras was staring at the walls with a curious expression. Grantaire followed his gaze just as he asked, “Is that Jehan’s writing?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Grantaire smiled crookedly. “We…um, got pretty high once and he decided it’d be a great idea to write everything he was thinking on the nearest available surface. Which happened to be the wall.” 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Were you mad?” 

Grantaire snorted. “Nah, why would I be? If I move out, he’s promised to help paint over it, so it’s not a big deal. Besides, some of it is pretty good.” 

Enjolras smiled and went to sit on the sofa as Grantaire dragged the space heater from under the table and put it on top. It made an unsettling rattling noise when he switched it on, but that faded as it started to blow hot air. “It’s pretty old,” Grantaire explained. 

“Looks older than you are,” Enjolras remarked, tugging off his shoes and holding his feet in front of the heater. 

“I’m pretty sure it is, actually,” Grantaire smiled slightly. “Um. You want a drink or something?” 

“No, thanks.” Enjolras pushed his sleeve up to look at his watch and raised his eyebrows. 

“What time is it?” 

“Twenty past two.” 

Grantaire hummed and sat down at the other end of the sofa. “Figures. We left pretty late. Should you…I don’t know, call someone? Combeferre?” 

“He knows I’m with you.” He hesitated for a moment. “Can I stay? I mean, the sofa’s already made up –” 

“The bed,” Grantaire blurted before he could stop himself, and forced himself to continue to fill the quiet. “I mean, um. The bed’s nicer. I’ll have the sofa, it’s fine.” 

Enjolras gave him an incredulous look. “I’m not stealing your bed.” 

“I sleep here half the time anyway,” Grantaire said honestly. Sometimes it genuinely was too much effort to move all the way to the bedroom. 

“We could just share?” Enjolras suggested. “If that’s okay,” he added quickly. “I don’t want to –” 

“You’re not,” Grantaire assured him. “Can we just…” he trailed off uncertainly and Enjolras smiled shyly. 

“Take it slow?” 

Grantaire let out a breath. “Yeah, that.” 

Enjolras nodded and reached for Grantaire’s hand, pulling him over until he was practically lying on top of him. Enjolras kissed him slowly, sweetly, and Grantaire relaxed and let Enjolras smooth caressing hands down his back and card gentle fingers through his hair, as if Grantaire was something precious and delicate to be valued. As if he was _worth_ something. 

At some point they pulled the blankets over them and switched off the space heater, but Grantaire couldn’t have said for certain how long it was before they fell asleep, never actually managing to make the move from the sofa to the bed. 

 

It shouldn’t have been so surprising to discover that Enjolras was as ferocious and passionate in love as he was in everything else, but it was unnerving at first to be the subject of such obvious devotion. Enjolras didn’t hide his feelings in anything, and once Grantaire had accepted him, he was no exception. He held Grantaire’s hand when they walked, and kissed him in public with no hesitation. It was thrilling and terrifying in equal measures, and when Enjolras first told him he loved him, Grantaire had needed to excuse himself to scream silently and flail in the bathroom for a minute. 

When he’d come back in sheepishly, Enjolras had kissed him and kissed him until he was smiling again, and it was actually okay. They were _okay_. _Better_ than okay. 

It was probably (definitely) helpful that Grantaire was usually so stunned that they were actually together (they were actually ‘in a relationship’ on Facebook which was all kinds of weird and amazing) that he didn’t even think to compare what he’d had with Alex to what he had with Enjolras. And they were so different anyway – the similarities really had been superficial. He was still occasionally hit with bouts of guilt over disrespecting Enjolras so much he’d tried to find a replacement, and breaking Alex’s heart, but it was okay. He was okay. The one time he’d brought it up again with Enjolras, Enjolras had just shrugged and said that everyone had exes, and as long as Grantaire wasn’t interested in anyone else, he didn’t care. It was kind of mindblowing. 

“Done,” Feuilly said, wiping at Grantaire’s ankle with a frown. “I think I’m getting better. What do you think?” 

Grantaire pulled his knee up to his chest and twisted his head to look at the design Feuilly had just finished tattooing over and around the protruding bone. “Definitely better.” It was a weird geometric sort of pattern contained in a double circle. “You could fill in the border if you like.” 

“It looks better as it is,” Feuilly argued weakly. They both knew he wanted to practice getting solid blocks of black just right. 

Grantaire shrugged. “So add another ring.” 

“You mind?” 

“Nah, go for it.” They’d been practising on each other since Fantine had allowed them to use the equipment, after all. What was a little extra ink? The bell over the shop door tinkled, and Grantaire looked over his shoulder expectantly. They’d closed up officially over an hour ago, but Fantine had said Enjolras, Joly, and Bossuet could come by to pick them up. Feuilly cursed under his breath. 

“They’re early.” 

“No they’re not – we’re late.” 

“Well I’ve started now,” Feuilly muttered. “They’ll have to wait.” 

“Hello?” 

“Back here!” Grantaire shouted. He grinned when Enjolras was the first through the door to the studio, and held still for his greeting kiss. Bossuet and Joly followed and made appreciative noises when they saw Grantaire’s new tattoo. 

“It looks great.” Joly crouched down to get a better look. “How long have you been working?” 

“An hour and a half, maybe?” Feuilly didn’t look away, totally concentrated. “My hand’s killing me.” 

“Your hand, what about my ankle?” Grantaire complained. 

“Quit whining,” Feuilly snorted. “Don’t be such a baby.” 

“Doesn’t it hurt on the bone?” Enjolras asked quietly. Grantaire nodded. 

“Yeah, but you kind of get used to it? Pain’s always easier to take when you know what to expect, anyway.” 

“I want one,” Bossuet declared. Joly laughed. 

“What would you get? A horseshoe?” 

“A four-leafed clover,” Bossuet grinned. “A black cat.” 

“Get your name,” Joly teased, “and ‘hospital’ stamped on your chest, so people know who you are and where to take you.” 

“It’d just say ‘hospital eagle’ then!” Bossuet protested. 

“Emergency eagle,” Joly grinned. “Maybe have ‘return to Meux if found’ instead.” 

Grantaire snorted and leaned against Enjolras, gritting his teeth as Feuilly started to fill in the space between the extra circle and the edge of the work he’d already done. “Are you okay?” Enjolras asked, frowning. Grantaire gave him a smile. 

“I’m fine.” An idea struck him suddenly. “Feuilly, stop a second?” Feuilly made a disgruntled sound, but sat back obligingly. Grantaire peered down at his ankle and grinned. He hadn’t filled in much yet – there was still room for his new idea. “I want something different.” 

“I hate you,” Feuilly said flatly. “You want to complicate it, don’t you?” 

Grantaire motioned for Bossuet to hand him a piece of paper and a pen. “Not that much.” 

Feuilly groaned and stood up, putting the gun aside and flexing his hand. “No more dots. I am sick of dots.” 

“How do you feel about practicing your lettering?” Grantaire asked, drawing two circles, one inside the other, and quickly fitting six letters at regular intervals inside the border. 

“How do you feel about doing it yourself?” Feuilly threatened without any real heat. Grantaire laughed and handed the paper to him. Feuilly studied it for a moment and frowned. “What about the bit I started filling already?” 

Grantaire shrugged. “Put a block between each letter?” 

“They’ll look thin,” Feuilly warned him. Grantaire waved it off. 

“It’ll be fine. Besides, it’s only practice, right?” 

Feuilly sighed. “I guess. At least there’ll be less to do.” 

“Exactly, and you can practice getting it all even.” Grantaire wiggled his toes while he could and smiled when Enjolras kissed his temple. 

“Change?” he muttered, obviously having looked over Grantaire’s shoulder while he’d been drawing. 

“The only constant in life,” Grantaire smirked at him. Enjolras smiled and kissed him properly until Feuilly swatted his leg. 

“Oi, not while I’m working.” 

Enjolras twined their fingers together and Grantaire smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.” 

Feuilly rolled his eyes indulgently and bent his head, gloved fingers wrapped back around the gun. “Stay still.” 

Grantaire leaned back against Enjolras and closed his eyes as the gun began to buzz, unable to keep the content smile off his face. He was okay. For now, at least, life was good.

**Author's Note:**

> Wheeeeee this turned out so much longer than I anticipated (story of my life), and I made many references! 
> 
> \- Don't Go Far Off by Pablo Neruda is referenced at least three times, I think.  
> \- "I tried to drown my sorrows, but the bastards learned to swim." - Frida Kahlo.  
> \- "To life, to life, l'chaim!" - lyrics from the song To Life! (L'Chaim) from Fiddler on the Roof.  
> \- "This is my gift, my curse. Who am I? I'm Spider-Man." - from the 2002 Spider-Man movie.  
> \- "... the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. (This is not actually true. The Road to Hell is paved with frozen door-to-door salesmen. On weekends many of the younger demons go ice-skating down it.)" - Good Omens, a fantastic book by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.  
> \- "I am that merry wanderer of the night." - Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare.  
> \- "They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more." - Pozzo from Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett.  
> \- "Life is pain, highness! Anyone who says differently is selling something." - Westley/Man in Black from The Princess Bride by William Goldman.  
> \- "If perchance I have offended, think but this and all is mended: we'd as well be ten minutes back in time for all the chance you'll change your mind." - from the hilarious poem [Storm](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HhGuXCuDb1U) by Tim Minchin. He's actually referencing A Midsummer Night's Dream here.  
> \- "Stay gold, Ponyboy." - from The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton.  
> \- "Sweet summer child." - from A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin.  
> \- "What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing." - Oscar Wilde.  
> \- "Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again." "He jests at scars who never felt a wound." - Romeo from Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare, because Grantaire is secretly a really romantic bastard.
> 
> Jesus, that's not even counting the dialogue and references from the Brick. D: My only excuse is Grantaire's absurd eloquence and knowledge of all sorts of random crap.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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